


Mercenary Heart

by ScribeOfReaper



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Betrayal, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Ignis is a master tactician, Prisoner of War, Violence, pre-HighSpecs
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-31
Updated: 2020-07-17
Packaged: 2020-07-28 01:20:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 30,792
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20055706
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ScribeOfReaper/pseuds/ScribeOfReaper
Summary: In one universe the Steyliff Grove mission went smoothly. The mythril was retrieved, and the four brothers were safely reunited in Lestallum. This is not that universe.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ScribeOfRhapsody](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ScribeOfRhapsody/gifts).

> It turns out Reaper and RED have styles that mesh nicely—especially when the end goal is to make ScribeOfRhapsody suffer.
> 
> This project was originally written longform roleplay style and was the opening to a massive project that we never got around to finishing together. Reaper intends to pick the project back up and continue it one day, but the opening is too good to let languish.
> 
> Warning: Ye who enter here abandon all hope.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ScribeOfReaper: So I have continued this story, I have a clear idea of where it is going and what I want to explore with it. Hopefully you guys will enjoy reading it as much as I enjoy writing it; in other words it will make you cry tears of blood but you will love it anyway.  
Comments are always welcomed

Light streams through the twisted limbs of the canopy above to reflect off the water that floods the ancient ruins; it blinds them after so much time spent in the cloying darkness of the dungeon, but they are leaving it behind now, their prize in hand.

“Beautiful sunshine!” Prompto cheers. “I’ll never take it for granted again.”

Ignoring Prompto’s outburst, Ignis turns to the commodore walking beside him. “You may have been hired under false pretences, but your assistance was valuable all the same.”

He watches from the corner of his eye and sees her tense slightly, just a small straightening of her spine, but it is noticeable in the way it interferes for a second with her graceful stride. “Hmph. Tell me something I don’t know. You can spare the pleasantries.” Her voice is light, but it leaves Ignis with a sense of unease that has him reaching for one of his daggers.

He does his best to be discreet about it, but as the warm, familiar hilt settles in the palm of his off hand, the commodore turns a half step toward him, spreading her near arm in a showy movement of bright light flashing across dark metal before she rests her hand on her hip, a fine brow arched. “This is how you repay one who’s helped you?” Her expression is anything but impressed, but she doesn’t appear threatened either. “You know, somehow I’m not surprised. It wasn’t us, so it has to be you.”

A frown pulls at Ignis’s lips, one that he attempts to repress as he studies her, trying to locate a glimpse of what’s tripped his instincts. “We have no plans of betrayal.”

“Besides.” Prompto appears at Ignis’s elbow, no weapons visible but hands loose and free by his sides, ready. “Who would we betray you to? There’s no one worse than the empire around, and oh wait, I forgot, _you’re already working for them_.”

“The empire, _kuh_.” Aranea takes a step back and turns, leaving herself exposed. It would be so easy to take her down, even with the thick armour that covers her shoulders and back. She’s not wearing her helm, Ignis notes with a detached sense of analysis. One precise stab to her exposed throat…it would be over within seconds.

It’s a ploy; he can see the MTs manoeuvring through the thick underbrush, surrounding them and cutting off the more obvious routes of escape.

“Why do you serve the empire?” Noct moves to step from behind him, but Ignis holds out his arm, halting his advance. Noct’s voice is commanding; it holds a keen edge of anger that gives his voice a deeper resonance than Ignis is used to hearing. He can feel Noct reaching for his magic and can’t suppress the small smirk that plays at his lips.

“Why?” The smooth line of her back stiffens again before she spins on her heel to face them, long skirt snapping about her ankles. There’s a moment, just a single moment, where surprise brightens her sharp gaze as she stares at Noct; then she visibly draws herself together again. “My reasons for what I do are my own and nothing a pretty prince with no kingdom need concern himself with.”

Anger, hot and searing, floods his veins, and for a moment he almost loses himself to it, but the sight of Noct and Prompto both advancing, their weapons drawn in flashes of iridescent light that scatter across the pooled water at their feet, brings him back to focus. He releases his dagger in favour of grabbing them both by their collars, pulling them back as he steps forward. It’s all for naught as he feels the cloth of Noct’s collar vanish from his grasp. His fingers fall uselessly through the afterimage of light.

The sudden clang of steel on steel echoes through the wasted ruins that stand tall around them.

Noct has, for years, rushed headfirst into battle—it’s a trait Ignis suspects won’t change unless something drastic happens—but he is finally growing into the skills needed to back up his reckless attacks. All Ignis can do is sigh and follow.

The commodore’s lance is already whistling through the humid air as she parries Noct’s initial attack, so Ignis uses the space created to cast his gaze over the MTs ringing them. Metal arms are rising, reflections off the water dancing in shades of muted chrome as they move, and Ignis reaches for the familiar tether leading to Noct’s magic so he can protect his king.

His radiant lance comes to hand with ease and no sooner is the weapon in his hands than it has left them as he throws the lance at the advancing MTs. The guttural choking sound of his first target dies quickly as most of its body slips beneath the water’s surface before it dissipates into dark mist.

“Prompto, you’re up!” Noct’s cry does little to break Ignis’s focus as he dispatches a charging MT with a swift dagger slipped into the joint between the shoulder and neck.

The sound of gunshots alerts him to Prompto’s position behind him; his aim is as impeccable as always, but the bullets do little more than distract Aranea as she easily sweeps them aside.

“Too slo—” Her remark is cut short as Noct takes advantage of her break in focus to deliver a heavy blow.

The noise of combat has become a familiar thing over the passing weeks, to the point where Ignis can keep track of a battle by hearing alone. Above the slosh of kicked-up water and grind of imperfect joins scraping together are tactical instructions and shouts of effort and triumph as MT after MT collapse with ugly synthesised gurgles.

The echoing ring of Lucian-forged metal striking imperial followed by a short, feminine cry are enough to draw Ignis’s attention from the steady chaos of battle. Whipping one dagger around in a semicircle to draw the MT’s attention and neatly dispatching it with the other, he sucks in a deep breath before turning in time to see the commodore stumbling back one step, two, forced to retreat from the strength in Noct’s attack.

An approving sound leaves Ignis’s throat, and he shifts his weight to spring forward and help them, but his attention is drawn by movement through the trees.

More MTs—dozens. Maybe tens of dozens, if the swelling noise is any indication.

One hundred, two hundred, numbers don’t matter now. They need to escape, soon, before fatigue takes one of them out too.

“We need t—argh!” His own words of warning are brought to a halt as an MT assassin bursts from the water. Spinning its blades with inhuman movements, it tries to take him from behind, but after so many battles, the MTs’ tactics have become all too predictable. Lance to hand, Ignis uses the pole arm to vault his enemy’s attack, managing to blindside his would-be assassin. In an instant Noct is once again by his side and all too soon their linked strikes reduce the small battalion that had surrounded them to nothing.

He takes a moment to regain his breath, but only a moment—the enemy’s numbers are still growing, and they have no time to waste. He looks to Noct; he can see the toll this is taking on his king.

“Prompto! We must retreat!”

It’s a testament to Prompto’s growing maturity—or perhaps it’s the overwhelming forces descending upon them like a swarm—that he doesn’t insist they stay to finish what they’ve started. Instead, he calls out a weary-sounding, “Right-o,” and begins fighting his way through the curved sheets of metal separating them.

Ignis casts another glance around and can’t help the way the sight of so many MTs still standing between them and freedom saps his energy. Noct could warp away, but that doesn’t help him or Prompto. Were that Gladio hadn’t chosen now to leave them—his help would be invaluable.

But their shield isn’t here, so they must endure, even though Ignis can’t see how they’ll be able to shake loose of this many MTs. They’ll be hunted down without reprieve. Another plan is needed.

Ignis always has at least a dozen projected outcomes he’s considering at any given moment, usually more, but right now there’s only one that makes sense, even though the very thought makes dread pool sticky and thick in his gut. He’s considered it before, but never did he actually think it would become necessary.

Needs must, sometimes.

“Noct,” he says, just loud enough to be heard over the unrelenting din. “I recommend starshell.”

A swift nod is all the acknowledgement he receives from Noct, but it is enough. “Blondie! Give us some cover.”

Prompto is already preparing the shot. “Blondie? That’s me, I guess.”

Ignis knows what is coming and he’s prepared to take full advantage of it. He shields his eyes as the flare rises into the air. The startled and pained mechanical shrieks that are all too reminiscent of the sound of rusted gears being forced to function are the signal. He senses more than he sees Noct and Prompto leave his side; they head off in different directions, cutting dual waves of destruction through any of the MTs in their chosen paths.

Ignis runs too, but his goal is not escape. His duty is clear: he has to buy time.

Tearing his way to the heart of the enemy, he summons a magic flask: blizzara, that will do the job nicely, he thinks. With Prompto’s starshell still active, he aims the spell at the largest battalion.

They don’t know what hits them.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ignis runs too, but his goal is not escape. His duty is clear: he has to buy time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for excessive use of fire, sass, and Aranea and Iggy being badasses.
> 
> Please leave soul fragments in the prepared box below.

Magic crackles a chill, pale blue as it washes over the battleground. Frost curls through the water, reaching for legs to wrap around, impeding progress as the swampy water turns first to slush, then to firmer ice.

There’s something niggling in the back of Ignis’s brain, but he knows better than to divide his attention in an attempt to chase it down. It will keep.

Not like he has a choice.

It’s grimly satisfying to watch the advancing troops stumble to a near halt as they attempt to break their way out of their icy shackles. Still, being a conduit for so much magic is hardly an easy feat, and Ignis finds himself panting, air spilling in sharp white puffs in front of his face, misting over his glasses.

He isn’t finished, though. The MTs are slowed, not destroyed, so he gathers himself for a second attempt, determined to wipe out as many troopers as possible. The less that survive him, the less will be able to hunt Noct and Prompto down.

Sable metal glints between wavering, overbalancing MTs, and that wayward memory surges to the front of Ignis’s mind as he whirls, lance materialising between his hands barely in time to counter the commodore’s stealthy attack.

The impact is shattering, but Ignis plants his feet and blocks the attack, locking his own lance with hers.

“Trying to hide from me, handsome?” Her voice is a resonating purr that easily carries over the unforgiving winter wind that envelopes them still. It sends a deeper chill down his spine than any blizzara spell ever has.

“Not at all.” His voice is steady despite the pressure she continues to exert upon him. “Quite frankly, I had almost forgotten you were here.”

She lashes out at him with a savage kick, the horned crimson heels of her steel boots making his avoidance of the manoeuvre all the more necessary. Her sudden break in stance allows him to force her back, but within seconds she is upon him once more.

He can’t keep this up much longer; though he parries each of her strikes and exploits the weaknesses of her armour, she still has the advantage. The effects of the blizzara have finally faded, and the MTs are coming back into play. His chest burns with each breath he takes, his arms shake from the weight of his weapons, even his lightest daggers seem heavy in his hands, and still the commodore keeps coming.

Another parry, and this time he manages to get some distance back between them.

Small lines clustered around her eyes and the noticeable—distracting—rise and fall of her chest betray her fatigue, but still she stands tall, lance angled, ready to attack again.

But she doesn’t, not yet, instead canting her head as she rakes her gaze over him. Ignis tries to school his expression to neutrality, but he can’t shake the rankling sensation of having his thoughts dragged out of him.

“Noble of you to send the children away. Foolish, of course, because now your boy king has one less protector. He’s easy pickings for the empire.”

He knows he’s tired; he wouldn’t whip a dagger at her head otherwise—a movement born of helpless frustration more than tactical advantage. “You underestimate him.”

She manages a laugh, tired though it sounds. “Then why send him away if he can’t hold his own? Why sacrifice yourself for the likes of _him_?”

“You would never understand.” His voice is ragged, choked and quiet, but he knows she hears him—the way her breath catches as her brow furrows, displaying her anger and confusion at his words, makes that all too clear.

Taking a deep breath, he stands tall; the dagger he had thrown is already back within his grasp.

For a moment, he studies his blades. He can’t help but note how well they have served him on the journey thus far. How well they will serve him in this final battle.

Drawing upon the tether that connects him to his liege, he prepares himself.

The flash in his eyes and the ethereal blue glow of magic that soon ignites into a shroud of flames are all the warning his opponents get.

Like desperate beasts, the MTs swarm him. Bullets and blades both descend upon him, but they are too late, far too late.

Blinding flames rise up around him; they obscure everything from sight as they engulf the field of battle. Distantly, he can hear the sound of cracking metal, but it is a dull noise compared to the roar of the inferno that surrounds him.

Wood, stone, steel, and flesh, they are naught but ash before him.

Finally, the flames die, leaving a heavy mist in their wake.

His knees give way beneath him, and he is forced to drop his daggers in order to catch himself. He can’t afford to pass out now.

This is not the end.

Water roars and froths around him, surging to surround his palms, his elbows, sloshing mucky foam up into his face before he can push himself to his knees. It takes him too long to realise his magic scorched the water right off the hissing, steaming ground around them, and now it’s rushing fast and strong to fill the void.

She comes with it, a blur of black and white and red, lance spinning as she rides the swell, harnessing its energy to supplement her own. Ignis has no such advantage, not as the epicentre that’s wrought such change, and he barely manages to shove himself to his feet to avoid death by drowning or impalement.

Water swirls around them, sucking with incredible strength at Ignis’s legs as though it’s trying to drag him under again, furious to have lost its prey and determined not to fail a second time. Fighting it alone would be near impossible, but it and the commodore prove too much in his weakened state, and he staggers once, then again as a branch or perhaps a chunk of stone uprooted by the still-swirling water slams into his legs with terrible force.

Something—bone or wood or rock—cracks, white-hot pain shoots through his leg, and he goes down.

He braces himself for the impending cold embrace of the murky water, but it never comes. Instead, an iron grip locks around his throat, further constricting his already laboured breathing.

Dark spots dance across his vision as he is forced to stand, only to be stopped when his back collides with something solid. It feels like a stone pillar, a part of his disoriented mind notes, while the rest tries to figure a way out. His hand claws uselessly at the steel gauntlet tightening its hold around his neck.

He is brought back to focus by a searing flash of pain from his right leg when he tries to take his own weight in order to lessen the pressure on his throat. His eyes fly open as he bites back a strangled cry of pain. The sight that greets him is not what he was expecting.

Unsurprisingly, it is the commodore that traps him, but she is looking far less…composed than he had imagined. Soot clings to her, blackening her skin, armour, and hair, which appears to have been severely singed. It seems, however, that her weapon bore the brunt of his last attack, a fact made evident by the still-glowing steel of her lance. Ignis cannot suppress the savage smile that plays across his lips; her lance is damaged beyond all repair, the metal warped and made brittle by the ferocity of his flames.

“What are you smiling at?” Her voice is a low growl; it makes him want to tease her.

“Nothing, really, I was just thinking that this look rather suits you.”

Something dark and ugly flickers through her eyes for a moment before she releases his throat, forcing his legs to bear his weight. The right doesn’t even try, instead buckling immediately, and he’s barely able to fight his way past the sickening rush of pain as he scrambles to brace himself on his good leg and the rough stone behind him, still sizzling hot under his palms and back from the brief, localised conflagration.

“Enjoy it while you can,” she hisses, ruined lance twitching in her grip. From beyond the blackened ring of trees comes a familiar metallic grind, and Ignis only just manages to keep his grin from faltering. “You’ll soon have far more pressing things to think about.”

Like the undamaged MTs marching forward to surround them. He scoffs, or tries to—the sharp movement jostles his leg enough that the pain momentarily cuts off his breathing. Right. He will not be doing that again. “You call a horde of tin soldiers pressing? I suppose you would, since you’re too cowardly to finish me off yourself.”

The last thing he expects is for her to laugh, a smoky sound that bounces off the rolling water. “And they call you a strategist.” Shaking her head, she gestures the MTs forward. “You, dear Ignis, aren’t going to die. Not here, anyway.”

The MTs form up before him. They are so close that even with his vision flickering in and out of focus he can see that the formation mainly consists of magitek bannerman.

“Take aim!” she commands, and as one they lift their arms.

“Fire!”

Pain, his world is engulfed in pain. It overrides everything as lightning courses through his veins, robbing him of any sense of control.

He can hear a scream; it is distant and distorted, as though he is hearing it from underwater. It takes him longer than it should to realise the screams are his own.

He wants to black out, he needs to black out…it’s his only means of escaping this pain. His mind rebels but his body succumbs—it’s too much, he is only human after all…

…when has that ever stopped him?

He grabs the cord leading to the magitek trooper, and in a move he has seen both Noct and Gladio perform many times, he drags the creature off its feet. The other troopers lined next to it stumble, and Ignis wonders if they have the capacity to feel fear. In this moment, he certainly hopes they do.

Lance back in hand, he advances…

…but it is too much.

He is falling and darkness finally descends.

Distantly, he hears a soft whisper. “Sweet dreams, handsome.”


	3. Chapter 3

Lestallum. The industrious, friendly town is always a welcome sight, particularly from the back of a weary chocobo whose feathers are limp and dripping. It’s been a long ride, longer still in the rain and without any company.

The chocobo warks, ruffling itself up under him, and Noctis shifts the reins to one hand so he can stroke the heather-grey plumage. No human company, rather. As fond as he is of the large, gentle-tempered birds, he’s impatient to meet up with Ignis and Prompto again. Not knowing where they are is weighing him down more than he plans to admit.

Gladio too, of course, but Gladio wasn’t just fighting a whole company of MTs. Noctis is confident they were able to escape as easily as he did—he’s sure he’d know via his magic and their connection to it if one of them didn’t survive—but he’s had nothing to do for hours except think. Turns out not having anyone around to annoy, bully, or order him out of his thoughts means they’re more liable to wander to places he doesn’t care for much.

Shaking himself in a featherless imitation of his chocobo, he nudges the bird forward, eager to reach the warm, dry inn and his waiting friends. Who are fine. Probably already eating or napping, maybe deep into a round of King’s Knight as they wait for his arrival.

“Not long now,” he assures the chocobo as they begin the last leg of their journey.

The sun is setting when he finally reaches the tunnel carved into the mountain leading to Lestallum, pale red light refracting and fading through the sheets of misting rain. He’s glad for the brief respite it provides from the torrential downpour. He slows his chocobo down to a steady trot, not wanting to completely exhaust the bird now that his destination is just around the next bend.

An almost appreciative wark echoes off the tunnel walls, and Noctis can’t help but smile, grateful for the distraction.

“Wark!”

Noctis accidentally pulls too harshly on the reins in his eagerness to look back, and his chocobo turns swiftly, nearly unseating him. “Whoa! Easy there…sorry.” He runs his hand through the soft feathers on the chocobo’s neck, quickly calming the bird. His eyes, though, are on the road behind him.

The seconds seem to tick by with an agonising slowness until he hears the telltale sound of rough talons against tarmac and an excited wark.

“Prompto!” Relief, pure unadulterated relief floods his veins.

“Dude!”

Noct is off his mount and embracing his friend before he realises it. He can’t stop smiling. Taking a moment to search for any injuries, he is relieved to find none. He does, however, notice the copious amounts of dirt, daemon blood, and swamp muck clinging to Prompto. “You look as though you were dragged through a swamp by a sahagin.”

Prompto scoffs. “Have you looked in a mirror lately?”

He hasn’t, actually. His thoughts have centred around his friends rather than his own state of being. A quick glance down at himself reveals he’s streaked with mud proving too stubborn for the rain to wash away, and now that he thinks about it, a deep ache resonates through him, the result of so many battles in one day followed by too much sitting still. He can’t recall the last time he felt secure enough to close his eyes for more than a second or two at a time, and suddenly all he wants is a nap. No, to sleep a solid twelve hours, probably more.

Something of his state must show on his face, because Prompto’s smile loses its blinding edge. “Whoa, Noct, you look rough. I can totally take care of the chocobos if you want to go find Iggy and crash?”

The offer is generous and thoughtful, but Noctis shakes his head as he turns back to his chocobo to remount, biting off a hiss as his stiff muscles protest. “It’ll be faster if we go together.”

He has no intention of sharing, but the truth is he doesn’t feel like going off on his own again, not yet, and from Prompto’s relief-tinted, “Sure thing, bro, whatever you want,” he knows the sentiment is mutual.

Not that they discuss it or anything as they ride into Lestallum. The faster they reunite with Ignis, the better.

* * *

Chocobos taken care of, they make their way to the Leville. The sun has now fully set and thankfully the rain has let up as well, so he and Prompto can take their time navigating the packed streets of Lestallum. Both of them are dragging their feet, and one time Noctis has to grab Prompto’s arm to steer him out of the way of an impending crash with an innocent bystander. Were he not so tired, he would tease his friend relentlessly, but right now it’s taking all his concentration just to put one foot in front of the other.

The collective sigh of relief when the Leville comes within sight is so loud that they actually attract a few stares, but they don’t care. Only a few steps separate them from the promise of showers, comfortable beds, and Ignis’s cooking.

Approaching the desk, Noctis is greeted by a well-dressed young man. “Will you be staying with us this evening?”

“Yes.” The response comes from both Noctis and Prompto in equally exhausted and relieved voices.

“Before that, though,” Noctis says, halting the concierge as he reaches for a room key. “Has a guy wearing glasses with spiked hair and looking almost as bad as we do”—he gestures to himself and Prompto—“checked in yet?”

Giving them a quick once-over, the concierge fails miserably to conceal his grimace when he fully takes in the state of their attire. Noctis quite frankly could not care less if he tried.

“I’m sorry, sir, nobody fitting that description has checked in with us this evening. If you would like, I can take a name and we can call your room when he arrives?”

Even exhausted, Noctis knows it would be a bad idea to hand out information about himself. Ignis has lectured him on the subject enough times. “It’s fine.”

Taking the key, he turns to Prompto, who is looking rather concerned. “Do you think Iggy’s okay?”

Noctis pushes down on the knot in his gut that feels suspiciously like dread. “C’mon, this is Specs we’re talking about. He’s probably just being thorough and covering our tracks.”

For a second Prompto doesn’t look convinced, but he shakes his head and smiles. “Yeah, you’re probably right.” His smile takes on a mischievous edge. “That or…”

Already regretting his decision, Noctis asks, “Or what?”

“He’s come up with a new recipe!”

Noctis laughs and he can’t stop.

* * *

Showers hot enough to scour their skin pink and food that’s warm and filling, if not quite as remarkable as Ignis’s dishes, do wonders for alleviating the most pressing of their physical needs. Sleep is next, but as exhausted as he is, Noctis doubts his ability to drift off right now.

Ignis still isn’t here.

Not that a whole list of perfectly reasonable explanations doesn’t exist. Ignis is nothing if not thorough; he probably has spent extra time ensuring that Aranea woman wouldn’t pose any more of a threat. Which Noctis appreciates, he really does, Eos knows that isn’t one of his own strengths, but if he had a choice, he’d rather know Ignis was with them and safe.

“Dude,” Prompto grumbles, half muffled as he shoves his head under his pillow, “shut the light off. Into bed. Sleep. Now.”

Noctis frowns at him from where he’s perched on the plush sofa. “He should be here.”

“Staying up and worrying about him isn’t going to make him arrive any faster.”

True. Still. “What if something’s happened?”

Sighing, Prompto heaves himself up, pillow dropping with a _fwump_ into his lap as he blinks dark-ringed eyes. “Then we’ll deal with it in the morning.”

“It _is_ morning.”

“Not by _your_ usual definition.”

“These aren’t usual circumstances.”

“So what do you propose we do?” Prompto asks, a biting edge to his tone Noctis has never heard before, one that catches him off guard. “Head out again right now? When we’re too exhausted to see straight? There won’t be any light for hours, and the rain’s already washed all tracks away. We can wait until dawn. He probably just holed up somewhere while the worst of the weather passed and will show up before we’re awake.”

It takes Noctis a solid few seconds of blinking to process the stream of words, and he finds himself nodding by the end of it. “Yeah.” Forcing himself to his feet requires too much effort, crossing the room to his bed even more, and he collapses face down into the covers. “Night.”

He barely hears Prompto’s soft grumbling, something about a light, before he slides down into sleep.


	4. Chapter 4

“Noct…Hey, Noct.”

A hand is on his shoulder shaking him, trying to draw him toward consciousness, but Noctis has never been one to part with the comfortable embrace of sleep easily. He turns on his side, trying to put some distance between himself and the force that wants to wake him.

“C’mon, dude, we seriously do not have time for this right now!”

It’s Prompto that’s trying to wake him, that thought somehow manages to register in his sleep-fogged mind, and with it comes a sense of wrongness. Ignis is usually the one in charge of getting him up—it’s been an unspoken rule since the beginning of the trip.

Another shake, and more awareness comes with it. He’s with Prompto, they’re at the Leville, Ignis should be there but he’s not.

Wrongwrongwrongwrongwrongwrongwrong

He’s out of bed and opening his eyes before he realises it, and only the pain of the too-bright sunlight streaming through the windows stalls him.

“_Ignis_?” He calls the name even though he knows there will be no reply.

Grabbing his jacket—his behemoth one since his fatigues are still covered in so much grime he can hardly tell what colour they’re meant to be—he heads for the door, trying to ignore the chilly metal bars that seem to be wrapping around his chest.

He takes the stairs three at a time, not slowing even when he nearly knocks a couple coming up the stairs back down them. He can hear Prompto following, but his friend doesn’t say a word. He’s sure Prompto’s learned by now there is no stopping him when he is like this.

Walking to the front desk, he is confronted with a different concierge than the one that checked them in last night.

“How ma—”

“Has a guy with specs and spiked hair wearing a suit checked in?” His voice sounds desperate, he knows it, but he doesn’t care.

The man looks a little taken aback, but he recovers quickly. “I’m sorry, sir but I am not at liberty to divulge the other customers’ information.”

“He’s our friend, he was supposed to meet us here last night,” Prompto puts in.

“Be that as it may, I am still no—”

The concierge is interrupted by a much deeper, far more welcomed voice. “Noct! Prompto!”

“Gladio!”

The horrid tightness that’s been doing its damnedest to squeeze the air right out of Noctis’s lungs eases somewhat as he spins around to the welcome sight of Gladio. Aside from some mud clinging to his boots and the cuffs of his pants and a rather vivid new scar cutting through his forehead, he looks none the worse for wear, and Noctis finds himself repressing the urge to leap forward and pull the taller man into a hug. Besides, it’s probably best not to make a scene in the foyer, so he settles with dropping his hand on a broad shoulder. “_Hey_. You’re back sooner than expected.”

“Someone has to keep you two hooligans out of trouble.” Despite his teasing words, there’s a tenseness to the set of Gladio’s mouth and around his eyes. And he hasn’t asked where Ignis is yet either, which should have been one of his first questions.

He knows something they don’t.

The certainty lodges thick in Noctis’s throat, those cold bands tightening around his lungs again. “What’s happened?”

Prompto, who’s hovering at Gladio’s other side, flicks his gaze between them before closing his teeth over his lower lip. “Should we head up?”

Gladio glances at Prompto with a small frown that doesn’t quite vanish, just softens around the edges as he nods. “Yeah. Let’s get your things, and I’ll…”

Prompto opens his mouth, no doubt to urge him to continue, but in what is turning into a series of surprising moments, he shuts it again, then places his hands on Gladio’s shoulders and turns him toward the stairs—or rather, Gladio allows Prompto to turn him. “Right. Up we go, then.”

Despite the faint nausea swirling through Noctis’s stomach, he can’t help a small smile as he follows the pair up to the second floor. They might not have Ignis at the moment, but wherever he is, they’ll get him back.

Any cheer that had surrounded the three as they made their way to the room Prompto and Noctis spent the night in dies a swift death the moment Noctis closes the door behind him. Prompto drops his hand from where he had been good-naturedly shoving Gladio along and immediately collapses into the armchair not laden with their dirty clothes. His head bends forward, resting in his hands, completely hiding his expression.

Gladio doesn’t look much better; the tension that hangs off his every feature only deepens now that they are alone. The bands around Noctis’s chest constrict with a sharpness that actually has him grabbing at the front of his t-shirt in an effort to relieve the pressure.

“What’s going on?” His voice is barely a whisper, but in the silence of the room it is more than loud enough.

“You don’t know?”

Noctis is taken aback by the sudden anger in Gladio’s voice.

“Gladio, neither of us knew. I only heard it this morning.” Prompto’s voice is dead. Noctis hasn’t heard him use that tone since they learned about the fate of Insomnia. It does nothing to ease the growing knot of fear his guts are currently twisting themselves into.

“What don’t I know!” His voice wavers; the edge of panic that floods his system is overriding everything else.

Instead of giving him a straight answer, Prompto turns on the radio.

“—kades have been sanctioned to continue along all major routes, and travellers are advised to expect delays. Now back to our main story: Chancellor Ardyn Izunia has released a statement regarding the capture of the Crownsguard Ignis Scientia. Scientia was taken into custody yesterday just outside the ruins of Steyllf Grove. The adviser to former Prince Noctis of Lucis is responsible for the deaths of several high-ranking members of the imperial army and has ties to many terrorist attacks that have been carried out in recent weeks. Chancellor Izunia had this to say: ‘It is my hope that with the capture of this anarchist peac—’ ”

The radio broadcast is suddenly cut off by a screeching death wail of static, brought about by the dagger that Noctis stabs through it. His hand twitches slightly with the low current of electricity that wavers along the shaking blade in his grasp.

No one moves as seconds pass, marked only by the faint drone of a lively town and the thunking of old water pipes.

No. It can’t be true. It…it just can’t.

The blood hasn’t stopped pounding an angry tattoo in Noctis’s head when Gladio takes a single step toward him. “Noct—”

“We left him.” He whirls on Gladio, hands trembling. His voice sounds like a stranger’s. “We knew it was a trap, we _knew_, and we still left him. Abandoned him. We should have gone back, we should have—”

“Noct, stop.” Gladio’s large hands fall heavy and warm on his shoulders, a grounding point as the rest of his world spins around him. “Hey.” Gladio shakes him without any true force until Noctis looks up. “Enough of that. No more should-haves. It’s done.”

“They have Ignis,” Prompto whispers behind them, elbows propped on his thighs, hands dangling between his spread knees. It seems an impossibly slow movement as he lifts his head to stare at them with hollow eyes. “They’re going to kill him.”

A terrible chill lances through Noctis’s chest, somewhere in the vicinity of his heart. _No_…

As though sensing its presence, Gladio squeezes his shoulders before dropping one hand so he can turn to face both of them. “They won’t. They wouldn’t have taken him alive just to kill him. Which means we need to move fast.”

Fast? He doesn’t know how to move fast, not when everything seems to be rushing by too quickly to process and he’s stuck in mud that he thought he washed away last night already. Prompto, thankfully, hasn’t lost his voice. “Why? Are we…?”

“Going to rescue him?” Gladio’s teeth flash in a smile devoid of humour, but it somehow helps to steady the world further. “Damn right we are. So get your asses moving. We have work to do.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ignis wakes, missing time, missing his friends, and missiing the free use of his legs

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, I'm back. So, I have some good news and some bad news.  
Bad News: I no longer have a Beta in the form of my co-author, so all mistakes are mine, I apologise.  
Good News: I have a stockpile of six chapters so for the next six weeks, possibly seven as I am in the middle of writing that chapter, you shall be getting regular updates, hurray!
> 
> Anyway, to all my returning readers thank you for your continued support.  
To any new readers thank you for picking up this story.
> 
> Comments and Kudos are author fuel!

The continual hum of the airships engines, the soft efficient whir of well-oiled gears, and the sound of fierce winds beating against the reinforced hull at his back, are the first things that register in Ignis’ mind. The agony that sweeps over him in waves is the second.

His first instinct is to cry out, by no means is this an easy impulse to ignore; what with the multitude of electrical burns across his torso and—he shifts his right leg only to experience sickening pain—his most assuredly broken leg. However, he supresses the half-formed scream that claws at the back of his throat and chooses instead to focus on his breathing.

It is not the best idea he has ever had; every intake of air feels like broken glass is being drawn into his lungs, but it is his best option at this time. He must endeavour to feign unconsciousness, a task made easier by the guard they have left with him. He doesn’t have to open his eyes to know that they are there: the subtle clank of their armour, as well as the eerie sounds of whatever resides within, is enough to give away both their number and position.

There are two close by, most likely stationed on either side of him. A third patrols along the length of the ship, its footsteps sounding very much like a life-sized wind-up toy soldier.

With his arms bound tight behind his back, there's little he can do aside from breathe, steady as he can, and think. He's always excelled at thinking, particularly when under pressure, but never when he's been a prisoner of war.

Is that what he is? It's not like they have an army and are waging full-scale battle on the empire. That said, they do come into conflict every time they encounter one another. Surely that counts.

What was he thinking about?

Oh. Right. Thinking. He's never had to do this while a prisoner—of war or otherwise—and certainly never while battling down a rising tide of nausea, every time the airship lists a little and jostles his leg. Can the pilot not hold the bloody thing steady?

Right, enough of that. Calm. Panicking isn't going to help anyone, him least of all. One thing at a time, that's what he needs to focus on.

His leg is a fiery point in his awareness, so it seems as salient a topic as any. Why didn't the commodore heal him? Even if it's a compound fracture—nasty thought at the moment, don't think about it right now—it just requires resetting the bone or bones before using healing magic. Simple.

So, either she was physically unable to or she made the decision to leave him injured—for what purpose, he isn't certain.

The obvious answers slither about in his head, unpleasant, unwelcome, and difficult to ignore. Control is one—a crippled prisoner is less able to stage an escape. Sadism is the other. Maybe she likes tormenting people.

It's a surprisingly distressing thought, that one so beautiful could be so vile on the inside.

Beautiful? He shakes his head a little, gritting his teeth against the hot pain in his leg. It seems his thoughts are more addled than he first assumed.

Even so he must keep thinking, if he stops unconsciousness will drag him under once more allowing information that might prove useful later to slip through his grasp. With this in mind he subtly tests the restraints that bind his arms.

They are metal—like most everything the Niflheim Empire produces—and are of a design that prohibits almost all movement without cutting off his circulation, small mercies. Bending his wrist at an extremely awkward, and not to mentioned painful angle he can just brush his fingertips against a chain—a reinforced chain by the feel of it—that connects to the centre of his restraints.

Carefully, he traces the links of the chain as his fingers travel down its length. His heart nearly stops when the ship suddenly lists beneath him jerking him forward. He is left internally cursing his training as he instinctively absorbs the force of the sudden movement with his legs; the answering flare of renewed pain has him gritting his teeth, as he desperately tries to regain control of his breathing.

Some minutes later he finds himself disorientated by his sudden change in position. Consumed by pain as he was, he hadn’t even realised that he had fallen. Trying to right himself is a lost cause, he knows this before even making the attempt, so he wisely decides to avoid wasting what little energy he has on the task.

He lies there, for how long he doesn’t know but enough time has passed with nobody—well nobody living—coming to check on him that he decides it is worth the risk to open his eyes.

He does so slowly, ready to shut them at the slightest sign that someone other than his Magitek guard is there.

Metal walls, metal ceiling, metal floor, metal guards. It's a reflection of the empire's mindset—cold, soulless, unyielding. Ignis has never considered himself a lover of nature. He, of course, appreciates its beauty, and the offerings of food it provides, but he's never been compelled to seek it out further by suggesting more time spent camping.

But right now, he'd give just about anything to feel the heat of the sun on his skin; smell the sharp, clean scent of a world washed by overnight rain, not this chill blue light and stale, metallic air.

And yet it's something of a relief to find no humans in sight. He takes a slow, deep breath, then another, grounding himself in the certainty of knowing his environment, even though it's plain and ugly and not reassuring in the slightest.

Still. Noctis and Prompto aren't immediately visible, and the resonant hum of Noctis's magic when he's close isn't present, so he chooses to believe neither were captured. Perhaps it's naïve of him, in a way he's fairly confident he rarely is, but it seems like the sort of thing the empire would throw in his face as soon as possible.

All he can do is hope they don't prove him wrong.

Now fully acquainted with his current predicament, as well as his immediate surroundings Ignis thoughts turn to his options for escape. His first priority should be healing the extensive array of injuries acquired during his capture, however using magic or simply summoning a potion and using it will do him no good. Apart from the fact that the light and sound generated by either choice will surely alert his guard, there is also the point that healing his leg when the bone is not properly set will lead to difficulties later.

His next best option then? To regain the use of his hands.

He is lucky that his hands have been chained behind him, as the lustrous blue light that accompanies the summoning of a dagger is shielded from sight.

With practised ease he slips the dagger between one of the links of his chain. He can feel the link resisting but when confronted with the superior craftmanship of his blade the metal soon gives.

Even with the sounds of the airship the clattering of the broken chain falling to the metal floor still rings sharply in his ears. He remains perfectly still, not even daring to breathe as he waits for the MTs that guard him to turn, to come and inspect his restraints, but they don’t.

Assured that he has yet to be discovered he turns his attention back to his cuffs. As a Crownsguard he has of course received training for this very type of situation, all of them have. It was one of the few aspects of training they were all expected to have a firm understanding of. Though if he recalls correctly it had been one of the only disciplines Gladio had been unable to master.

The memory of watching Noct laugh while Prompto takes pictures of a shackled and annoyed Gladio briefly flashes across his mind.

Shaking off the pleasant memory he now relies upon his hard-earned knowledge as he traces the cuffs with the tip of his dagger. Following the smooth furrows carved into the cold metal until the blade slides across a large indent—the lock.

The steady clank-clunk of an approaching MT causes him to tense before he can remember his leg. Even the small movement sends a wave of heat breaking over him, followed by a clammy, prickling sweat.

Surely his guards hear his gasp, stifled though it is, but he doesn't keep his eyes open long enough to see. He tries his best to regulate his breathing into something steady, even though it's difficult to focus on anything beyond the nearing footsteps. Even the pulsing pain in his leg had dulled to something not so pressing as he listens, every nerve on edge as he clutches the dagger between his fingers, waiting.

The MT clunks to a halt directly in front of him, and Ignis is suddenly all too aware of the sweat trickling down the side of his face. Itchy, annoying, traitorous bodily responses to pain.

Ignis doesn't need to see to know compassionless eyes are staring at him, boring right through his body to the dagger jammed into the handcuff's lock behind him, and he crushes down the urge to move even a finger. Breathe. Steady. Everything is normal here; he's just toppled due to turbulence.

Seconds tick past marked only by his trying-to-remain-even breaths, and the rumble of the engines.

Surely it hasn't been sent to watch him? The other two guards could handle that. This is something else, something that makes his skin crawl, and not just with evaporating sweat.

A hiss fills the air, skittering over Ignis's skin like venomous bugs; then the MT clank-clunks away, and Ignis has to fight hard not to slump as the strength vanishes momentarily from his body.

Still safe.

Ever so slow, he cracks an eye open. Both original guards remain staring forward, but he makes himself count out a silent five minutes before twisting the tip of his dagger into the lock, just to be sure.

But he's working in a limited timeframe here, and he knows it's been too long by the time the lock snicks open. Only his fingertips' grip on the slick metal saves it from clattering to the floor and betraying him.

As carefully as he can, he gently lowers the restraints to the floor. Hands now free he works slowly to restore feeling to his numbed fingers; it takes a few minutes, but it is not time he spends idle. While he waits, he continues to observe the three guards.

The two beside him are as still as stone, they stand at attention; their arms relaxed at their sides. He can see the glow of their unnerving red eyes reflected in the metal wall opposite. It is a small detail but in the low, almost dull blue light that surrounds him it is a striking contrast that his eyes can’t help but be drawn to. They are Axemen: the large, mass-production, low grade, steel weapons they carry on their backs make that fact all too obvious. He quickly runs through their weaknesses, delighting in the fact that he still has three magic flasks; one of which is imbued with Thundara.

No, his problem lies with the third guard: A Magitek Assassin.

Unlike the other two its weapons are already to hand. It is still patrolling. Its harsh footsteps echo back to him from somewhere out of view. Now may be his only chance.

Slowly he sits up, his eyes never leaving his guard. They remain as they were; still and silent as though they were mere statues—though who in their right mind would ever commission the construction of such unsettling figures, Ignis cannot imagine—unable to move by their own will.

His back resting against the cold steel wall behind him Ignis cannot help but grimace at the mere thought of what comes next. Oh well, best to do these things with haste.

Potion already to hand he braces himself against the wall as he reaches for his right ankle.

blindinghotagonypainpainpainpainpain!!!!!

He can taste blood in his mouth, the salty tang of it somewhat brings him back to focus. He has to distance himself from this, focus on the facts only and block out the pain.

Easier said than done when his stomach is doing its absolute best to exit his body by crawling up his throat.

He leans back on the wall, allowing it to bear his weight as he blinks hard in an effort to clear the dark spots attempting to crowd out his vision. By some miracle, neither guard appears to have shifted, eyes' reflection still glowing a dim, bloody red off the wall opposite. Is it possible they don't react to sounds? He's never really had reason to consider it before, but now isn't really the best time to see if his theory holds water or not.

Water. A drink certainly wouldn't go amiss right now, but quite clearly there isn't one in the vicinity and he can’t waste time summoning a canteen from the armiger, so he swallows, trying to ignore the growing thirst. Coppery blood slides down his throat, causing his stomach to rebel, and it's only with a half-choked breath that he manages to coax it into settling again.

His guards might not have moved, but unless his ears are deceiving him, the patrolling sentry is approaching again. Ordinarily, his best chance would be to wait until it had passed so it would have to waste precious moments spent turning to come back to him, but he isn't bending down to pick up the unlocked cuffs, and if he retakes his sitting position, he won't be able to stand again.

Moving fast is his only chance.

He takes a breath, then grits his teeth, hefting his dagger. Speed trumps stealth now, so he calls forth a second knife and hurls one at each guard before shoving himself away from the wall, only to come face to face with the assassin.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cue the escape music!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome back, as promised here is the next chapter.  
Writing is surprisingly progressing...I know, I'm shocked too.  
Anyway hope you enjoy.  
Screams, comments, kudos, all are welcome.

In the dim light the radiant glow that accompanies the summoning of his daggers almost blinds him, but he doesn’t even wait for the sheath of ethereal light to disperse, before he plunges the dagger up to the hilt straight through the thinner armour covering the MTs throat.

Red sparks erupt from the wound and the creature twitches until all of a sudden it goes still. Removing his dagger Ignis allows the MT to fall to the ground like a puppet that has had its strings cut.

Looking back, he can only see empty armour where his guards once stood.

In relief he falls against the wall, the cool metal provides temporary respite from the feverish heat that crawls just beneath his skin. Unwilling to waste another second he summons a potion, luckily the fight—if it could even be called that—had not aggravated his broken leg. He will not be required to reset the bone again.

Grasping the potion tightly he keeps applying pressure until the glass gives way beneath his fingers. A feeling of warmth travels up his arm and spreads through the rest of his body as a golden aura engulfs him.

It is only when the last traces of healing warmth have left him that he allows himself to collapse.

Two minutes. He can allow himself two minutes, enough time to get reacquainted with how it feels to breathe easily, to be able to move without sickening waves of pain washing over him, and to figure out what he is going to do next.

Undoubtedly there are more MTs nearby, he will have to clear them all if he wishes to take command of the ship. The confining space and sharp angles of the corridors should give him an advantage.

Subjugating the pilot will be his next priority, as unfamiliar as he is with the mechanics of the Niflheim airship it would be a foolish choice to kill the pilot and then attempt to fly the ship himself.

His two minutes are up.

He can't quite bite back a wince as he pushes himself to his feet. His injuries are physically healed, but such curatives don't work their magic on one's mind. As such, there's a part of his brain still certain his leg is broken and he must avoid moving it at all costs, lest the pain incapacitate him again.

Only with an ease afforded by more practice than he'd like can he push past it. He's still frightfully thirsty, but he has other tasks to complete before he can address that, so after taking a moment to call up the memory of what imperial airship schematics he's seen, and estimating his location best he can, he sets off down the corridor, away from the engines and toward the bridge.

Twice he encounters a patrolling MT; each is swiftly dispatched. Though he remains on guard, he doesn't encounter any humans, prisoner or crew, so either they aren't in this area or there aren't any on board at all. He doesn't know enough about the empire's fleet to guess whether this is standard or not, but he doesn't allow himself to become complacent. Not when he's made it this far.

In a concerning turn of events, the doors to the elevator that connects the bridge to the rest of the ship are open when he arrives. Frowning, he pauses and observes the empty metal box, uncertain whether this is its natural state or whether he's walking into a trap.

In the end, it doesn't really matter. His chances of taking control of the ship and escaping are higher while they're still in the air, than once they've landed in no-doubt imperial lands. So, he takes a deep breath, firms his grip on his daggers, and steps into the elevator.

There are controls on the panel to the left of the door, but he doesn't need them—as soon as he's inside, the doors whoosh shut and the elevator begins to rise, taking him to whatever fate waits above.

It doesn’t take long for the elevator to reach its destination, there is just enough time for Ignis to pry open the emergency escape hatch in the ceiling and climb out to crouch atop the elevator. It proves to be a wise decision despite the cramped space, for as soon as the door opens three MTs walk in.

He waits for the doors to close before dropping down into their midst, he soon has three more bodies to add to his quickly growing tally.

That taken care of, he pushes the button to release the doors to be greeted with the site of a long windowless grey corridor, at the end of which sits a rather out of place ornate—in comparison to the rest of the ship—door. They might as well have put a sign above it reading ‘_The Bridge_’.

After taking a second to jam the controls to the elevator, he carefully makes his way down the corridor, ready to react at the slightest indication of the door before him opening. Surprisingly though, he makes it the rest of the way without incident.

A quick inspection reveals the door not to be locked, all he need do is push the button to release it. However instead of confidence this development evokes a sense of trepidation within him. This is a military ship; surely they have security camera’s? If so, why has an alarm not been raised? Why has every door he has come across either been unlocked or child’s play to hack?

It shouldn’t be this easy.

This thought haunts him even as he steels himself and opens the door.

The lightest pressure on the controls causes the door to slide smoothly open.

“You escaped from the brig quicker than I expected.” A smooth voice greets him.

“Commodore.”

She sits draped across a simple desk chair as though it is a thrown. The smile on her face is almost predatory.

“I must say…” she stands gracefully throwing the chair to the side with a simple twist of her wrist.

“…I’m impressed.”

Some other day under some other circumstances—very different circumstances—he might've sought to impress the commodore, but after the day he's had, her words jab at his skin like nettles, sharp and seeking to wound.

It takes a concentrated effort to push down the swiftly rising frustration and achieve a tone that is dry rather than annoyed. “Impressed enough to turn back for Lucis?”

He isn’t expecting the brief but noticeable hesitation that precedes a too-light laugh. “Hate to tell you, but I’m not sure I’ll ever be impressed enough for that.”

Trained from a young age in the skill of detecting falsehoods, Ignis finds himself perplexed. To his knowledge, she isn’t lying, but there’s... something. It’s lurking within her, an important tidbit of information that’s the key to understanding her, but it’s veiled, and he isn’t certain how to uncover it.

Nor is he sure he wants to. Leaving, not conversing with an agent of the enemy, is supposed to be his priority. “A pity. It would’ve made things so much simpler.”

She scoffs, hands going to her hips and creating what is an unexpectedly eye-catching outline. “You got that right. The way I see it, we only have two options: you stay here and behave like a good boy, or we return you to—ahem.”

It’s something of a shock to realize he’s staring at her. With all haste, he lifts his gaze back to hers, only to find one of her brows has made its way into a sardonic arch. “You quite done?”

That she sounds less put out than she could doesn’t lessen the mortification of having been caught, and he finds himself hoping the blue lighting hides the colour rising to his cheeks.

What is wrong with him?

Forcing his brain back into gear, he does his best to not let her smirk bother him. “I suspect option number two involves more bodily harm on my part.”

“Give the man a prize.” Her hand rises to glide across her lips in a rather suggestive manner.

He studiously ignores the action. “Might I suggest a third, less violent option?”

“Oh?” She glides a step closer. “Do tell, handsome.”

As though he’s going to reveal his strategy. With a bit more effort than he expects, he forces his gaze past her to find the airship’s controls. He studied what information made it back to Insomnia regarding piloting, but faced with the controls, he suspects it won’t be enough. It’s possible his best option is to destroy vital systems and bring the ship down.

He’s certain he doesn’t actively shift, but something must betray him, because the air changes, sparking hot and electric as she drops into a fighting stance. By contrast, her voice is chilled steel when she says, “you want to do this the hard way? Fine. You’re going to the empire either way.”

He adopts his own stance just in time to counter her first punch. Grabbing her arm, he uses her own momentum to cause her to stumble, but she recovers almost immediately and roles out of striking range before he can retaliate.

He doesn’t pursue or make to attack her; he instead takes a measured step back, and then another as he uses what little time he has gained to analyse the situation.

She has no weapon and her armour is still damaged from their last battle; these facts however do nothing to detract from the air of lethality that covers the Commodore like a well-worn cloak.

She is coiled like a Coeurl ready to pounce, prepared to attack or defend at the slightest provocation.

“Do you usually like to keep a girl waiting or are you just shy?” Her sultry voice pierces through his thoughts, tearing his focus to shreds. Her words, though spoken quietly stretch across the distance between them tauntingly; like nimble fingers caressed against a taught wire.

Again, with the distractions.

At least he now has an answer to his earlier question. Blue light, it would seem was not as concealing as he had hoped.

Well two could play at this game.

“I hardly think I can afford to be shy around you.” He makes a point to run his gaze slowly down her body before meeting her stare once more. He has to fight hard to consciously supress the blush that once more threatens to paint his cheeks a dusty red.

“Well aren’t you the charmer.” She makes a step towards him and he takes a step back, maintaining the distance he has so carefully measured out. A scowl lights across her face at the move, creasing her fine brow with sharp lines, but it does little to stop him from taking one more slightly to the left.

“Playing hard to get?” From her tone the question is meant to be insulting but it merely brings a smile to his lips.

“It’s the only way I know to play.”

The dagger still grasped in his hand flies from his grip the moment the last word leaves his lips, flying straight towards the commodore.

She barely manages to dodge in time, but she rolls straight into an attack taking him by surprise with her swiftness. She has him by the throat and against the wall within seconds. Her grip as unyielding as the red tinged steel that covers her arms.

“That wasn’t very smart.”

Ignis cannot help but laugh as he pours every bit of sarcasm he can summon into his reply. “Was it not?”

She looks at him confused, her brows knitting together in a way that he can’t help but think of as cute. Quickly shaking this traitorous thought off he stares behind her and waits for her to turn.

When she does, she is greeted by the sight of the dagger he had thrown at her, lodged hilt deep within the main control panel. If the red sparks and quickly rising smoke are anything to go by the damage is quite severe.

“Son of a b—" The ship lurches violently beneath them before she can finish.

He gets only a split second to acknowledge the satisfaction of a job well done; then the deck tips under their feet without warning, sending him falling forward into the commodore. Her grip on his throat loosens as they stagger, tripping and fighting for balance and control as the ship lists to starboard with startling speed.

Alarms blare, shattering Ignis’s concentration long enough for her to land a blow on the edge of his jaw, enough force behind it to momentarily stun him. He reels back as much as he can, considering he’s falling into her, blinking sharply as the ship’s blue ambiance lighting flickers, off-on, off-on, a dazzling pattern that leaves him disoriented.

There’s a bone-jarring collision with what’s likely one of the bridge’s consoles, and for a moment Ignis is certain they’re crashing, the ship tearing itself to pieces on the ground.

Then the lights flare crimson, washing the bridge and what he suspects is part of the commodore’s head in a bloody glow, and it occurs to Ignis that the engines are still running. They don’t sound good, though, strident where they were smooth before, and the ship continues to judder around them, repeatedly jabbing the console’s controls into his side.

“Get... off,” comes a muffled growl from somewhere in the vicinity of his breastbone. The words are followed by another sharp impact in the vicinity of his stomach, which he now realizes is being created by her metal-covered elbow, and along with the combined stimulus comes the conclusion he’s sprawled atop the commodore, inadvertently pinning her to the console beneath them.

“I think I rather like where I am—more control this way,” he quips, then winces as she drives her elbow into his side again. He’s going to have bruises.

“Oh, come on.” She shoves up against him, metal and flesh pressing into his body, but gravity is definitely working in his favour. Not that the fact seems to deter her. “You can’t tell me this is how you want to die.”

He hisses as she struggles beneath him, metal-wrapped limbs impacting his body and compromising his already tenuous balance, as the ship continues to shudder around them. He can’t think about that right now—not if he wants to contain her, not if he wants to maintain his resolve. “Better to die free of the empire than fall into their hands.”

“You might think it’s better to die this way, but I assure you I don’t.” She smacks her head into his chest, startling a grunt out of him. “Move.”

“I think I won’t, if it’s all the same to you,” he replies, a bit breathless as he locks her thigh into place with his.

Without warning, she goes still under his body, head craned back so she can look up at him. There’s a glossy streak on the side of her head, half hidden by her thick bangs and blood red under the emergency lighting. There’s a high chance it is blood. “Look,” she says, voice a chilling contrast to the hot air between and around them. “If you ever want to serve your precious boy prince again, you’ll let me up right now, otherwise neither of us survive the next few minutes.”

The thought of not seeing Noctis again cuts deeper than he’d like, reaching an area of his heart he didn’t realize was so tender, and he finds himself studying her face, so close to his own. With the right training, she could have made a fine negotiator.

“Right.” He braces one hand next to her head, ready to push off of her, but hesitates. “You realize I’m not going to stand idle.”

She snorts and pushes up on him again; with better leverage this time, she’s successful in creating more space between them. “Not dying first, fighting after.”

That’s as good a promise as he can ask for, so he dips his head and shoves off the console enough to let her slip out sideways from under him, so they’re leaning side by side. A quick glance around reveals the primary bridge controls are... behind and above them due to the way the ship’s nose is angled almost a full forty-five degrees toward the ground.

Looks like they’re in for something of a climb.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's not flying. It's falling with style...and hopefully not crashing

This was not how Aranea had pictured this mission going. Taking a moment to swipe away the blood that was steadily dripping down her face, she couldn’t help but chastise herself for the rookie mistake she had allowed herself to make. She should have sounded the alarm the second she had looked at the security footage and seen an empty cell where once her captive had been, but she hadn’t.

She had allowed her curiosity to get the best of her and now she was paying the price for it. Well whatever, she shrugs. feeling the rough edges of her damaged armour digging into her exposed skin, no matter how this ended there was no way in Pitioss the cost of repairing this ship was coming out of her commission. If the crash—because there is no doubt in her mind that they were going to crash no matter what they did—didn’t destroy the evidence of what had actually happened, she would.

Quickly crushing a potion to take care of the bleeding cut on her forehead, she looked to see where tall, dark, and soon to be her captive again had gotten to.

“What’s the diagnosis?” She has to shout to be heard over the strained screams of the engine.

He’s currently buried up to his elbows in wires and circuit boards. Having turned the pilots chair, which is bolted to the floor, so that he can hang stably above the rat’s nest of frayed wires and sparking micro-chips.

“Considering that my knowledge of Niflheim technology is limited to those documents that made it to Insomnia in one piece, I don’t believe I’m informed enough to pass a verdict,” he remarks in an oh so infuriatingly calm voice.

“Then make an educated guess!”

“I’d rather hear your opinion on the matter if it’s all the same to you. You are more familiar with this technology.” The way he says that makes it sound like an insult.

She’s about to argue when the ship gives another sickening lurch. The distinctive sound of tearing metal echoes through the halls, drowning out the repetitive drone of the emergency alarms.

“Out of the way!” She all but kicks him out of the chair but he makes room for her, so now she is lying next to him as they both hang over the damaged controls. It’s a tight fit but Aranea isn’t complaining, she’s just annoyed that their previous ‘rough and tumble’ was so abruptly cut short.

Trying not to pay attention to the warm breath on her neck, or the hand that briefly comes to rest on the small of her back, she assesses the damage. Well no need to worry about erasing those security files, the dagger had acted as a conductor, overloading several of the ships systems, including the ships security logs.

“This is a lost cause; we need to get the main power going again if we want to have a chance of landing this thing.” Had this been her own ship she would have been confident that she could make the landing with minimal damage on reserve power alone, but this wasn’t her ship.

Catching her by surprise, Ignis turns to her, eyes dark and serious, only the barest traces of urgency lurking within them. "What can I do?"

Practical, this one. Definitely someone she can work with. "Up there." She points with one hand, the other already busy prying away the panelling to the left of the navigation controls. "Aft-port corner. There's a fuse box-looking thing. Open it.”

“What is it and what do I do then?”

“It’s one half of a two-part engine restart system, and just flip the switch when I tell you to."

He dips his head in a nod almost as sharp as his jawline and begins the process of turning around to face the rear of the bridge, without losing his precarious positioning on the controls they’re both balancing against. "You have the other half here?"

"Yeah," she grunts as the panel springs free, almost smacking herself in the face with it. With nowhere convenient to put it down, she drops it over the front of the console and can only just make out the scrape of it skidding down to the nose of the bridge. "Stupid system in some ways, but it's rarely used, so who cares?"

"I, for one, very much care," he mutters, low enough she suspects he didn't intend for her to hear it.

Were it anyone else, she'd likely just let it go—under these circumstances, anyway—but he's far too entertaining to stay silent around. "Yeah, well, you won't care for much longer if you don't hurry your wonderful peachy ass along."

He spares a single moment to arch a brow at her from behind his glasses. "Indeed? I'm flattered you agree." Despite his light words, he doesn't turn fast enough to hide the deepening red taking over his face.

A smirk pulls at Aranea's lips as she watches him adjust his balance. This is far too easy—it's like he’s never had anyone flirt with him before. Maybe he hasn't, although with a body and looks like his, it seems unlikely. Either way, the whole thing is a bit endearing and far, far too amusing.

It's going to be the death of her if she isn't careful.

As though reading her thoughts—and maybe it is; seems the right kind of twisted madness the empire cooks up—the ship bucks beneath the soles of her boots, doing its best to throw them both over the edge of the console. Only quick reflexes and a grasping hold of one another prevent them from tumbling down into the front of the bridge.

The engines have definitely kicked up into a higher gear, shrieking as they attempt to compensate for whatever new damage they've suffered, and they're falling faster now.

As she and Ignis hurriedly untangle themselves again, she's certain she hears him clear his throat before he says, "I might require assistance."

Glancing back up the length of the roomy bridge to estimate the distance he needs to go, she nods and weaves her fingers together, not bothering to disguise the tension creeping into her voice. "Hurry."

For all he's a slim figure, she discovers he's surprisingly heavy when she boosts him up the steeply inclined deck. Only when she's certain he's safely made it to the bridge's back wall does she turn back to her own task of preparing to engage the restart. "You ready yet, handsome?"

“A moment, if you please,” he replies in his ever-dry tone.

She can hear the strained shrieks of the fuse box lid as he attempts to pry it open. You would think that a fuse box that needs to open during an emergency would have a quick release system, but no. The damn thing comes with a practically airtight seal that can take a hit from a charging Garula.

Even as her thoughts curse the idiot’s that designed this ship, she can hear the final wince inducing screech as the lid finally gives way.

“Watch out!”

The call barely gives her enough time to dodge the spinning scrap of metal which hits the panelling beneath her with enough force to dent the supposed bullet proof—but not dagger proof apparently—metal cladding of the control panel beneath her.

She spares just enough time to look back up at him.

“You know, I’m beginning to get the impression you don’t like me for some reason.”

The slightly sheepish look in his eyes is quickly hidden with a small adjustment of his glasses.

“Whatever gave you that idea.” It’s a rhetorical question and even if it wasn’t, she doesn’t have time to answer it.

“Just flip the damn switch!”

“As you wish.”

Power flows back to the control system beneath her and she can’t help the wave of impatience that nearly chokes her as she waits for the first phase of the restart system to finish its checks. Chancing a glance through the starboard viewport she immediately regrets it.

“Come on, come on, come on!”

The lights flash above her, flicking between red and blue as a computerised voice sounds over the speakers.

“Phase one of emergency re-start system has been engaged. Submit Empire Identity code in order to initiate phase two.”

“Commodore Aranea Highwind! Number: 185413175!”

“Analysing Number…Number confirmed. Initiating phase two of restart system.”

Finally, the lights settle back to blue as power and systems are restored.

Grabbing the controls Aranea pulls back hard. Elation and adrenaline race through her veins as the nose of the ship gradually pulls up, but the engines are still screaming and if she doesn’t relieve some of the strain on them, they could overload.

Not taking her eyes off the view of the rapidly approaching ground in front of her she shouts back to Ignis.

“Controls on the left! There should be three black switches! Flip them!”

He doesn’t reply but the crisp sound of his boots behind her is enough for her to know that he is still following her orders, for now at least.

He moves fast, comparable to her regular crewmates, but even before he transfers control of the ship's power redistribution systems to her, she knows it's already too late.

They've dropped too far. Not even a fully functional ship could recover altitude in time to avoid crashing, and this ship is anything but fully functional.

No thanks to him.

Except that isn't true. He might be the reason they're hurtling along on a collision course with what has to be the desert that edges Cartanica, but he's also the reason they aren't already an ugly smear across the bleached sands. They just need to corral this fall into something survivable.

Now with control of both the ship's steering and its power, she scrambles to find a balance between the two. Never has she wanted Biggs and Wedge by her side more than right now.

As though on cue: "Commodore, there's something wrong with the conduits in engine thr—"

The ship lurches, almost wrenching the controls out of Aranea's hands. Behind her, Mr. Perfect Advisor goes suspiciously silent; she's a bit too busy fighting to keep them on a vaguely steady course to check whether it's out of respect or whether he's busy trying to stay on his feet too.

"Get over here," she orders through gritted teeth as the ship rocks around them. One of the engines—three, she knows from long experience—is shrieking the piercing note that prefaces an explosion: the sound of a death sentence.

"Now," she snaps, using a free second she doesn't have to glance over her shoulder, only to find him directly behind her, one hand reaching for the exposed edge of the console, the other settling on the controls just below her own hands, and she has to resist the temptation to either step forward into the controls or back into him. He must be stronger than he looks, because they steady out. Not a lot, but every bit helps right now.

"What can I do?" he asks, and she finds herself glaring out the front viewscreen, furious with herself, the way she's so distracted by her own awareness of his proximity, the heat of his body reaching out to find hers. It’s like he’s teasing her on purpose, except she knows his type, and he’s one hundred and ten percent business right now.

Clenching her jaw, she gives herself a firm mental shake. Focus, Highwind! "Uh. Well. Think you can keep us flying straight?"

Even as she speaks, she reaches out to grab the wrist of the hand on the console beside her and guides it to the controls; then, before he can argue, she ducks down out of the circle of his arms, taking care not to touch him at all, so she can reach the screen displaying the transferred power easier and hopefully save their lives in the process.

He clears his throat but dutifully adjusts his weight to better brace against the controls, which want to drag the ship straight down into the desert. And no, she's definitely not eyeing the way the muscles in his arms have corded tight with the effort. Definitely focusing on preventing their ship from blowing them into the afterlife. "I feel the need to inform you we are still flying straight—into the top of a prominent sand dune."

Despite their dire situation, she finds herself grinning over at him. "Exactly."

The look he levels at her speaks volumes.

Mistrust, suspicion and several questions as to the validity of her sanity, she sees all of it levelled at her in that unwavering gaze of his. She doesn’t blink, she meets his gaze with one of her own, confident that they will survive if he would just trust her in this one instance and do as she asks.

“Warning.” The computerised voice of the ships interface system echoes across the distance between them. “Three minutes until impact. Engine three unresponsive, energy levels critical. Immediate action is advised.”

Finally, he blinks. “It would seem I have no choice.”

“Not if you want to live.”

She has already returned her attention back to the issue of engine three. The earlier power surge has made the engines main system completely inoperable, her only option is to redirect the power to the other engines and hope they don’t overload. Typing in the override command she initiates a ten second countdown, just enough time for her to make it back to the flight controls and brace herself. The fact that the safest way to do this is to wrap her arms around the man currently sitting in the pilots’ chair doesn’t bother her one bit, as focused as he is on keeping the ship straight, he probably doesn’t even notice.

The ship trembles violently beneath her as engine three shuts down. The unnerving high-pitched scream of the strained engine dulls to a weak cry that is soon overwhelmed by the chorus of hums generated by the other engines compensating for its loss.

Satisfied that they are not going to pierce the veil as an exploding ball of fire she moves to take back control.

“I’ll take it from here.”

To her great surprise he doesn’t protest but quickly relinquishes his seat, a gentleman even in a situation like this.

“You might want to buckle up.”

“Where?”

That’s when they hit the sand.

* * *

  
Staring at the primary viewscreen, filled with sand and only the tiniest sliver of pale sky at the top, Ignis decides with abrupt and absolute certainty that this isn’t the way he wants to die. He wouldn’t give a second thought to sacrificing himself so Noctis might live—although in truth, it’s something he’s thought about many times, especially during the recent weeks—but this... Crashing in the desert after being taken prisoner by the empire? It hardly seems a worthy end.

Forget worthy, shrieks a rogue voice in the vicinity of the underside of his brain. Just live.

Living would certainly be nice, but unless his pilot does something in the next ten seconds, they’re going to die.

Nine, eight, seven.

I’m not ready to die.

This time, Ignis recognizes the voice as that of his normally repressed base instincts, the bedrock of human survival. All it wants is to live, it demands he reach out to the commodore again and take control of the situation for himself.

Six, five, four.

Only years of intensive self-discipline allow him to instead grab hold of the pilot’s seat, and even then, the effort is enormous. The continuing wail of the engines as they strain to keep them off the ground echoes through Ignis—a desperate cry for life not to end. Not like this.

Three.

Oh, Eos, please, not like this.

Two

Stay safe, Noct.

One—

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another chapter down and I still have a buffer of four.
> 
> Hopefully you're all still enjoying the ride.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Any crash you can walk away from is a good landing

Many years ago, Ignis had watched over Noctis as he was first training his ability to warp. Hours upon hours taken up with the crackle of seed magic flashing across pale skin and paler stone. His Highnesses first successful attempt resulted in his poor friend emptying the entire contents of his stomach, onto the shoes of one woefully unprepared Titus Drautus.

After getting cleaned up Noct had point blank refused to try again. It was one of the few occasions Ignis had witnessed Noct being so wilfully stubborn—usually such a scenario was reserved for Noct’s near legendary dislike of anything green or healthy—weeks had past and all the while Noct had been unwilling to resume training. Only through the combined efforts—persistent nagging Noct had called it—of both himself and King Regis, did they finally convince Noct to undertake the training once more.

When the ship’s underside collides with the dune Ignis finally feels that he can understand some of Noct’s…reluctance to restart his warp training.

For the briefest of moments, he experiences what it is like to be truly weightless, but then gravity violently takes hold of him, throwing him into the back of the pilots’ chair with such power that he is left breathless.

It is only his vice like grip on the back of the pilot’s chair that prevents him from being thrown to the fore of the bridge, with everything else that isn’t bolted down. Still, he is at the mercy of the forces at play and it is only the commodore’s steady hands, that continue to somehow keep the ship straight as it endeavours to rip itself apart around them, that allowed him to ground himself as the ship gradually began to lose speed.

Alarms that had been silenced when they had restored power flare back to life with a vengeance, but their piercing cries are nothing compared to the painfully sharp howls of straining metal that sound all around him.

“I can’t hold it!”

Aranea’s words—strange, why is he referring to her by her name instead of her title—though quiet in comparison to the symphony of destruction that plays all around him, are heard clearer than any of the baying sirens.

“We did not make it this far only to die now!”

The instincts he had been working so hard to supress, to bury beneath layers of rationality and composure, suddenly seize him with such strength that he finds himself powerless to restrain them.

His hands are over the controls, covering Aranea’s, adding his might to hers.

It is a precarious position, one that compromises both his stability and balance, two things he cannot afford to sacrifice.

The viewscreen is overtaken by sand as the nose of the ship fully buries itself in the dune.

Everything happens at once.

Up becomes down, light becomes dark, earth becomes sky and floor becomes ceiling.

Then—mercifully—it all goes black.

* * *

Upon waking, Ignis becomes aware of two facts: there is a significant weight on his chest, and the scents of copper and smoke and strawberries are filling his lungs.

Strawberries? It's the wrong time of the year for—

Oh.

Trying to force weighted eyelids to open, he lifts his head, only to discover another fact: he hurts.

Immediately he goes still again, taking a slow breath as he assesses himself. There is no blinding sharp pain from... earlier? Yes, the broken knee earlier. Which was awful. Truly a terrible experience. Still, at least now he can join the other three when they speak of grievous injuries suffered. Somehow, it's less of a joke now than before they left Insomnia.

This is not what he should be thinking about.

Another attempt to lift his head is enough to remind him: he hurts. Not like before, not so localized and loud; more spread out and babbling, like a river, or perhaps like the water they were sloshing through earlier, outside—

The grove. Betrayal. Alone.

Aranea.

He sits up in a single movement, ignoring the strains and the bruises in favour of shifting Aranea off him. The ship's lights are dead, but a good chunk of the front of the bridge was torn away when they crashed, and the gaping holes allow hot desert sun to spill into the bridge, highlighting the dark splotches forming on otherwise pale skin.

Bruises... Something about bruises...

The thought slips away like one of Noctis' more wily fish. Perhaps that's concerning, but he's currently preoccupied with pulling his glove off and pressing his fingers under her jaw.

He exhales hard when he finds a steady th-thump beneath the delicate skin of her throat. And if he doesn't move his hand now, he's sure he won't want to at all—although he doesn't understand why or how he knows that, he just does—so he reaches for her hair. The blood is dry now, leaving the no-longer silver-blonde strands crusted into place, and... something...

It's gone again. How bothersome. Well, nothing to be done about it right now, so he pushes himself to his feet, biting the inside of his cheek until it hurts enough he forgets—mostly—about the other hurts. Nothing feels immediately broken, which is wonderful.

What isn't so wonderful is that a look around the bridge reveals the ship is upside down. It would appear that flying back to Lucis is no longer an option.

Sighing, he crouches to gather Aranea in his arms, grunting a bit at the weight of her. Must be the armour. He should maybe strip her of it. It would make escape easier, but from what he can see there is very little left to the imagination hidden beneath the plates of steel. Were he to remove it she would be all but fully exposed…he’s forgetting why that scenario is disagreeable…

No. Focus. Task at hand: removing both of them safely out of the crashed ship. There's no noise coming from the engines, no sound at all except the pinging of hot, over-stressed metal, but outside still feels safer, so he heads for the nearest rend in the bridge.

He stumbles through the carnage that surrounds them, slowly and carefully making his way to his best option for escape. More than once he nearly falls as the unstable floor gives way beneath him or a severed wire catches his foot. Each misstep sends a dizzying wave of vertigo surging over him and each time he stops it takes a second to reorganise his thoughts, in order to bring himself back to focus as his vision swims before him.

When this happens for the third time, he finds himself staring again at the woman currently lying unconscious in his arms, she truly is beautiful. Not in the elegant and gentle way that Noct finds Lady Lunafreya, or in the impactful and fiery way that Prompto finds Cindy. No, her features are sharp and—despite her light complexion and fair hair—far darker than any woman Ignis has met before.

Without conscious thought Ignis finds his fingers lightly brushing a stray hair away from her face. She doesn’t stir at the gesture and he cannot suppress the feeling of wrongness that swells within his chest, as he realises how defenceless she is right now.

Against his will his focus shifts again—that should worry him but again the thought slips away before he can analyse it—this time to the exit that lies only a few steps away.

From afar, with the light streaming through it, the tear had seemed much wider, now much closer Ignis sees that he is going to have to climb if he wishes to escape. Something nags at the back of his mind and slowly an earlier thought resurfaces, the weight of Aranea’s armour, it will impede his progress.

Nothing else for it, her armour will have to come off. Her boots, greaves and gauntlets can stay but the heavy chest plate and spiked pauldrons must go.

Setting her down on a relatively flat space of ceiling turned floor he reaches for the first clasp on her shoulder. He has barely touched the latch when in a flash of wane light reflected off red stained steel his hand is caught in an unyielding grasp.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Apparently, she is not as defenceless as she had appeared.

The teasing cadence that has been present in her voice since Ignis first met her is gone, in its place rises an edge of cold steel. Anyone in their right mind would back away immediately from the threat of violence that is promised with that voice.

Unfortunately for him, Ignis is far from in his right mind at the moment.

His hand remains where it is as his confused thoughts battle for acknowledgment. It is this disorienting chaos that causes him to answer honestly in what he would later think back on as a very Prompto like moment—Six help him.

“I was simply removing your armour.”

The sounds of smouldering metal and sparking wires resonate loudly in comparison to the silence that stretches out between himself and Aranea, as she stares at him in complete disbelief. Her eyes widen as her mouth hangs open slightly from shock.

Slowly her hand rises to his neck, Ignis cannot supress an instinctual flinch as her fingers touch his skin, unsurprising considering how many times those same fingers have nearly choked the life from him. However, this time her touch is gentle, measured and cautious, she is showing through actions not words that she means no harm. In this instance, at least.

They are at eye level now. She, having raised herself up as she gently guided him down.

His mind is buzzing with thoughts of what she might be planning but they all come to a halt very suddenly when her forehead touches his.

His mind goes blank as a shock of electricity courses through him. Unlike the attacks he has suffered from Niflheim troops, or the jolts he has endured from a stray spell thrown by his allies, this shock is not painful, but it is just as paralyzing.

All too soon she draws herself back from him, but the lingering warmth of her touch remains. Somewhere in the back of his mind, through the fog that has descended upon his rationality a small voice goes unheard.

“You don’t have a fever.” She notes in a distracted tone. “Maybe it’s just a concussion.”

Shaking his head—bad idea, he won’t be doing that again—he adjusts his glasses.

“I hardly think it wise for a person who has only just regained consciousness to be diagnosing others.”

She scoffs, brushing off his comment as she stands.

“Experience trumps wisdom.” She looks to the breach in the hull. “Think you can make it?”

He stands, having to grasp the remains of what he thinks was once a cooling system to steady himself.

“I know I can.”

Thank the Six Aranea woke when she did, because as he follows her up the twisted metal leading to the breach, picking his footing with care, it occurs to him with curiously clear certainty that he would never have been able to carry her out this way. Not when his balance is already so precarious.

Is it his balance? That doesn't seem right, but he can't think of what the word is when it keeps glimmering away, like a silver-scaled fish darting away to hide beneath the reflections dancing across a pond.

Just a concussion. It doesn't seem like a "just" to him, and if there's one thing he's certain of, it's that he doesn't like it. Doesn't like the way his thoughts are difficult to hold onto, how things he's certain are important keep slipping away.

And yet he can remember the texture of Aranea's skin against his with startling accuracy. Soft and smooth, even under the crusted blood and gritty dust. He isn't certain what he's supposed to make of that.

Maybe none of his thoughts are reliable right now.

He stops moving, hands curled tight around the sharp edges of the ship's torn hull as another wave of nausea hits him. Not being able to trust his own mind is equitable to losing a limb. To losing a sense. To... to...

And the thoughts swirl away again, taking the worst of the nausea with them and leaving only the bitter dregs of sickness behind.

Something is wrong with him. He knows that much.

"Hey."

At the familiar voice, he looks up to find Aranea watching him with eyes that seem very green under the dried blood. He gets lost in them, just for a moment.

"You need a hand?" she asks, and it's the high note of concern in her voice that suggests maybe more than a moment has passed.

"A... hand?" Oh, assistance. He starts to shake his head, remembers just in time that isn't a good idea, although he isn't certain why that is, and stills again. "Ah. No. Thank you. I'm quite all right."

Her snort echoes back through the ruined bridge behind them. "You really ‘quite’ aren't. Here." She holds out a hand, sunlight glinting off the metal gauntlet. It's damaged, cracked, and is that char?

I did that, he recalls, in a vague, hazy sort of way, but the memory doesn't seem terribly important right now. Taking her hand does, but he pauses immediately when she frowns. "Have I done something wrong?"

She blinks, looking from their joined hands to his face, and while the frown vanishes from her lips, the line between her bright green eyes remains. "No. Not at all. C'mon, handsome, let's get out of here."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for your continued support guys. Hopefully Iggy wasn't too OOC in this chapter, in his defense he does have a concussion...that's my story and I'm sticking to it.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sand, heat, burning wreckage, oh and look! more sand

As he climbs from the ruined corpse of the Niflheim ship he is greeted by blinding light and a wall of heat, both of which are so intense that he almost takes a step back into the protective shadows he has just emerged from.

It is only the guiding hand of Aranea that stops him. Her unwavering hold compels him to keep moving forward, to carefully traverse his way down the side of the ship to the soft desert sands below.

Taking in the expanse of rolling dunes and desolate terrain that lies before him Ignis cannot suppress the feeling that there is something he should be doing. Something he had been working towards is within his grasp, but in this moment, he can neither remember what that something was, nor what steps he would have to take in order to achieve it.

The harsh dry air and severe heat are only making the pain that dominates his mind worse. The ill effect they are having on him must be apparent as Aranea slows her pace to walk beside him, her free hand tensed; ready to catch him should he fall. Even so she still leads him through the debris field, picking her way through it carefully as to avoid the more strenuous routes.

It is, to put it bluntly, humiliating.

Always it has been his role to look after others, the sudden role change is—to say the least—unsettling.

Aranea brings them to a stop by a deformed wall of metal that towers above them, casting long shadows across the burning sands it now rests in. From its arched appearance and what little design he can still make out, Ignis can only surmise that it must have been one of the Niflheim airships engine casings. Now, with its warped and twisted form half sunken in the desert it quite reminds him of a jagged, weathered, black fin breaking through the crests of white topped waves.

He collapses against the metal, only to immediately jerk away from it as the heat tears through the thin fabric of his jacket and shirt.

He regrets the swift movement as soon as he makes it. The world spins on its axis and his vision spins with it, he is falling before he realises, and he only has one thing to grab onto: Aranea.

Having yet to release her hold on his hand she is able to react in time to catch him. He latches on to her like a man drowning, in a way he feels like he is, not in water but in his own disoriented thoughts. They come at him one after the other, shards of memory all jumbled together in a discordant mess that only increases the pain gathering at the back of his mind.

Seconds, minutes, hours? He doesn’t know how long he sits there clinging to her, his hands tightly grasping her bare upper arms. He focuses on his breathing, it seems to be the only thing he has control of at the moment, he clings to that fragment of control as tightly as he clings to Aranea.

“…nis...”

“I…is!”

His hand is torn forcefully from its purchase and he detachedly wonders why he is not falling? Only to have that thought interrupted by the touch of cool glass settling in his palm. He feels fingers over his own, forcing them to put pressure on the smooth surface that balances in his palm.

With the sound of cracking glass, the veil of confusion that had sought to drag him under finally recedes and clarity—glorious merciful clarity—is restored.

“You back with me Handsome?”

He blinks, twice, three times as his gaze slides across the undulating hills of bright, pale sand, shining in the direct sunlight, surrounding them. They're untouched to his left, but on his right, dark flecks are scattered across what are comparatively lower and more ragged dunes.

That's east. Where they came from. Right, yes, of course, they crashed the ship. Which he can remember now, thanks to Aranea.

His attention returns to her, only to be drawn to the blood matting her hair and crusted over her skin. It's a bit shocking in the harsh light of the desert, and he's up on his knees reaching for her head before he realizes he's moved.

"Hey, whoa." She rocks back on her heels and wraps a hand around his wrist, arresting his momentum. "I'm fine."

"You aren't." Even as the words leave his mouth, he assesses her, cataloguing what he knows about her and cross-referencing it against what he's seeing now. Clearly the wound bled a lot, but it's dry now, and head injuries always bleed a startling amount even when they're trifling. She's exhibited no unsteadiness or disorientation, her countenance is clear of any hazy confusion, and her speech has been steady and firm.

Perhaps she is fine. And she certainly isn't Noctis or Prompto, both of whom require—required, anyway—constant forms of attention. She's an individual, one that isn't under his sworn protection, so he draws his hand back out of her hold and dips his head, the movement small as he tests what's comfortable right now and what isn't. "Indeed. I..." Appreciate the assistance.

But he can't say it, not when the memories of fire-and-smoke-and-swampy-steaming-water-and-an-afterimage-of-sickening-pain rise fresh and vivid once more, stealing the breath from him.

One no-longer-silver-blonde brow arches, and he forces himself together. "I admit I wasn't confident we'd survive that."

Something all-too-knowing gleams in her green eyes, but she mercifully chooses to acknowledge the spoken words only. "What can I say? I'm a really good pilot."

"Hmm." He glances back at the ruined husk of the ship, small fires blazing here and there across its crumpled surface. "I'm not disagreeing, exactly, but that isn't the tidiest landing I've ever seen."

She snorts and drops down into the sand beside him, careful, he notes, not to lean back against any of the sun and friction-heated metal. "We're alive, handsome, that's how good I am. Now we just need to wait. The emergency beacon will do the rest."

He straightens with a sharp frown. "Emergency beacon? What emergency beacon?"

“The emergency beacon that all ships carrying non-MT designated personnel are fitted with.” There isn’t a single hint of triumph in her voice as she states this fact, but the knowledge that she is not taking vindictive pleasure in his suffering is little consolation.

He stares out once more at the rolling dunes, calculating his chances of survival.

Every scenario he can think of that starts with him wandering into that sea of sand without transport, or even an idea of which direction he should take ends the same way: with his sun-bleached bones sinking beneath the ever-shifting waves of sand.

The alternative: to wait and be recaptured by the Empire…

He takes his first step out towards the desert only to be stopped when an unrelenting hand grabs hold of his shoulder.

“What do you think you’re doing?” To his surprise Aranea sounds more concerned than angry. Strange; anger would be a far more understandable emotion in this situation given her role in his capture, but concern? He is her prisoner, she has no need to be concerned about his welfare…and yet.

What sort of captor restores their prisoner to health when they are weakened and therefore that much easier to handle?

It is a question that eats away at his thoughts, almost causing him to turn back and ask her directly simply to have an answer…almost.

Instead he adjusts his glasses, harshly wrests himself from her hold and continues to walk towards the burning sands that only promise death.

He is stopped once more, this time by Aranea moving directly into his path. Her emerald—not green, her eyes hold too much depth to simply be labelled green—eyes lock with his own searching for an answer to a question she is unwilling to voice.

Judging by the way her eyes widen fractionally she finds it and she doesn’t like what she sees.

“You can’t be serious…”

His answer is another step forward.

“You won’t last a day out there…”

Another step is taken.

“Listen to me!”

“And allow you to stall for more time? I think not.”

She makes another grab for him, swift as all the others that came before, but he’s ready. Even with the shifting sands, he twists, seizes her wrist, and in a single move so smooth one could mistake if for dancing he pins her.

She doesn’t cry out, or struggle. Not even when he locks her arm behind her, buries his knee in the small of her back, and twists her wrist with the slightest pressure. The silent promise that he will not hesitate to dislocate her arm should she try to fight him.

The tensing of the line of her shoulders and the almost imperceptible narrowing of her eyes, are the only indication that she is in pain. When she speaks her voice is steady, logical, a language Ignis understands. “It’s noon. The temperatures are at their highest. You’re already dehydrated, and you have no supplies. How long will you last?”

More silence is his answer, but her words bring his attention back to his own condition. The way salt and sand have mixed together in a thin layer that dusts every inch of his exposed skin. The fact that he can no longer feel the uncomfortable sensation of his shirt clinging to his sweat soaked skin. Unconsciously, he tries to wet his lips, but his tongue is as dry as the cracked and sensitive skin of his mouth.

She’s wrong about one thing, he does have supplies. Hidden safely within the armiger, but he has no idea when they’ll run out. However, he’s unfamiliar with the environment, it would be foolish of him to assume that he would be able to survive, simply because he has experienced a similar heat while trekking through the arid landscape of the Leide region.

There’s so many factors to be considered and yet his time is limited.

Another glance at the roaming expanse of white dunes, that crest across the region like so many waves gives strength to the doubts churning at the back of his mind.

He closes his eyes, quieting his mind as he focuses on the steady sound of his beating heart. In truth, his decision has already been made.

Rolling smoothly onto his heals, he slowly releases the pressure he has been exerting on Aranea’s locked arm. He’s prepared for her next attack, but to his surprise she doesn’t move. As he looks now, he can see that her eyes are closed and the tension that he had previously seen coiled in the lithe muscles of her back is gone.

Standing, he takes two steps back; half tempted to draw a line in the sand to help measure out the distance and assure himself he’s safe. A vain hope, Aranea’s mere presence fills the very air with a thrill of danger that Ignis has rarely experienced outside the sphere of battle.

When she does finally move, every gesture is exaggerated and careful, a placid display meant to ease his nerves and show without words that she has no intension of attacking him again. She even goes so far as to raise her hands in the universal sign for surrender, but the glint of sun reflecting off the sharpened claws of her obsidian gauntlets dispels any illusion that she is unarmed.

The façade doesn’t last long, it falls as a sharp smile cuts across her features, casting shadows over smooth skin and revealing the almost playful challenge hidden in her eyes. “Glad to see you’ve come to your senses,” she comments as she looks once more at the splayed wreckage of the ship.

“Our new ride should be here in less than two hours; we might as well grab a seat back under the shade until then.”

There’s an edge of such certainty to her voice that he almost feels sorry for disproving her clearly wrong assumption. He walks past her with a confident stride, head held high, back straight, out into the desert.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, depending on how many chapters I can write this week after my next update I will be switching to an update every two weeks. Just letting you know


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bust-a-Base  
The remix!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Back for a quick check in with the boy's

“So, what exactly is the plan?” Prompto asks as they eye the fortress before them, the heavy, sun bleached concrete walls rising up ahead of them like a mountain as they drive closer.

“Charge straight through them,” Noct supplies, his eyes not leaving the road as he begins to slow the Regalia. It’s good to be back in the old girl, but the familiar comfort is lessened by the gaping void that is the empty seat behind him.

“First, we’re gonna scout the place like we did before,” Gladio reminds them both. His voice is low, but it carries, even over the smooth growl of the Regalia changing down a few gears.

Noct doesn’t argue. Yes, he’s anxious for information on Iggy—desperate might be a better way of putting it—but he’s not willing to endanger Prompto or Gladio to get it.

The Regalia finally pulls into the layby opposite the Niflheim base. Up close the structure looks even uglier, all unnatural grey walls and industrial metal, that stands out against the backdrop of rolling verdant plains surrounding it. If it were not for the fact that they need information and therefore the base still to be standing, Noctis would be tempted to summon the Archean.

The thought must be showing on his face because Gladio places a steadying hand on his shoulder. “That tower over there looks like it’ll provide a good vantage point.”

He’s right, the metal framed guard tower stands less than twenty yards from the perimeter wall. It’s lightly guarded, from what he can see from here. One MT patrolling a programmed route along the stairs, another circling the tower platform; soulless red eyes glowing even in the bright light of day as they stare across the distance.

“Things will go smoother if we can take both of those tin cans out at the same time,” Noct states, as he eyes the top of the bases wall. There’s no sign of more MT patrols, but they could be making their rounds any moment now and Noct doesn’t want to waste time waiting for a unit to pass.

He looks to Prompto who’s already got his gun out: Quicksilver. Elegant to a fault, the deep engravings along the line of the barrel lightening the piece without compromising its strength. There’s no denying it’s a beautiful weapon but in terms of range and precision it can’t compare to the firearm Noct has in mind.

Delving into the armiger he reaches for a weapon he’s been neglecting since he acquired it. The blue sparks of Lucian magic do nothing to disguise the clearly Niflheim design of the sniper rifle that forms in his grasp, its industrial lines speaking of the mechanical hands that crafted it.

“Heads up.” He tosses the gun to Prompto, ignoring his friends squawk of protest as he tries to juggle the two weapons.

“Dude! Proper firearm procedure!” Noct rolls his eyes, the sniper rifle wasn’t even loaded, it would have simply faded safely back into the armiger if Prompto had dropped it. Plus, Noct has known for a long time that Prompto is a lot less clumsy than his friend would have most people believe.

Quicksilver soon vanishes with the usual accompaniment of refracting blue light, as the weapon fades from reality and Prompto stares, his mouth hanging open in shocked surprise as he studies the weapon he cradles in his arms.

“A Cerberus.” The shocked awe barely hides the appreciative tone that laces Prompto’s voice. He runs his hand along the smooth barrel, before bringing the recoil pad to rest against the crux of his shoulder, as he looks down the sight. He makes a few small adjustments, checking the alignment of the telescope assembly and when he’s seemingly happy summons a loaded magazine.

“Think you can handle the MT at the top while I take the one on the stairs?” Noct asks as Prompto smoothly slides the magazine into place until he hears the sharp click of it locking.

“With this baby.” He hefts the Cerberus looking once more down the sight. “Just give the word.”

Nodding Noct looks to Gladio whose had his eyes trained on the high walls of the base, “you got our backs?”

“Tch, who do you think you’re talking to, princess?” Gladio scoffs as he summons his great sword, “just don’t screw up too soon, I’d like a bit of a show before I have to run in and save your asses.”

“I aim to please,” Noct replies sarcastically, sketching a bow that lacks any decorum. This would normally be the part where Iggy cuts in, adjusting his glasses to cover the mischievous glint in his eye, as he laments the many failings of Noct’s posture. Instead, a weighted silence hangs between the three of them.

“Let’s go,” Noct eventually manages to say, moving towards the tower.

They stay low, sticking to shadows cast by the knotted vegetation that still clings to life around the edge of the wall. Signalling the others to slow, Noct summons his engine blade, the weathered grip feels warm and familiar against his calloused skin. It brings with it a sense of calm that he needs.

Looking back, he can see Prompto already in position; crouched with his back pressed firmly against a convenient boulder, his shoulder slightly forward to account for the recoil.

Catching his friends’ eye, he receives a nod and moves.

The sound of shattering space, a sound so much like that of crystal shards cracking against stone, is overtaken by the noise of sheering metal and mechanical screams, resounding within the spilling cavity of black mist and frayed wires.

The MT collapses beneath him, its legs folding under it as his weight forces it to fall back. Planting his foot against the ravaged chest plate he twists his blade, ignoring the twitching spasms of the MT that imitate so fully the dying throws of something living, as his sword slides easily from the hollow chest.

The muted thump of leather boots against metal and the pounding vibrations that run along the banister lining the stairs, proceeds Gladio as he rounds the corner of the tower.

On the edge of his peripheral vision a flash of blonde is the only glance of Prompto he catches below, before a second set of footsteps begin to ring against the rungs of the stairs.

“All clear.” Prompto says as he comes to stand behind Gladio, the usual smile that would be accompanying such a good shot missing. He doesn’t need to ask why.

Taking the stairs two at a time they reach the top within seconds. Just as Gladio said, the tower is the perfect position to scout from. Close enough and tall enough to give them a good view of the inner workings of the base, but innocuous enough to provide them ample cover.

MTs patrol behind the walls, weaving in between rows of Magitek armour lined up like soldiers, their heads down and their weapons sheathed.

There’s fewer of them than Noct was expecting and it also seems as though the normal security systems aren’t even engaged. Are they that cocky or has the lack of attacks after the fall of Insomnia made them complacent?

Whatever the reason it doesn’t matter, what matters is the fact that their odds of taking the base have just increased.

One more glance across the fortress reveals just what Noct was hoping to find. Parked against the farthest wall from where the tower stands, almost blending into the black motif of the large containers, rests the bulky form of a Niflheim assault craft.

Looking to the others, he only has to see the anticipation blazing in their eyes—the same anticipation he can feel coiling in his own chest—to know that they’re ready.

“Meet you at the gate,” Noct says as he lets his sword fly. Unwilling to wait, he catches the hilt while the blade still cuts through the air, causing the usual feeling of displacement and weightlessness to be accompanied by a sharp tug to his guts, as his body shifts from complete stillness to raging speed with one warp.

Landing atop the wall he skids to a stop, twisting his heel as he does so to absorb more of the force. Still he has to brace his hand against the rough concrete now beneath his feet to counter the momentum that wants to drag him forward.

Standing, he starts to run along the wall, throwing any thoughts of stealth to the wayside as the flash of light across polished armour draws his attention. A lone MT patrols the walkway, marching towards him with the same shuffling pace they all possess.

Without hesitation his engine blade leaves his grasp, only to be within it once more as he warps.

Oil, thick, black, and warm splashes across his face as he drives his blade into the small gap between the plates of the MTs armour. Like arterial spray the vital fluid leaks from the MTs system, but the shrieking cry of the automatons dying circuits is neither silent nor choked.

Like the sentry cry from a guarding daggerquil the last mechanic yet eerily human scream, alerts the base’s other MTs. Slowly, one by one, heads that had been bowed in rest begin to rise.

Working to a strict time limit now, Noct summons a dagger and aims at a MT standing by the concrete and metal colossus that is the main gate. He keeps his engine blade in hand, ready to defend himself against the hail of bullets that will surely descend.

Noct waits until the first MTs have their mounted guns trained on him, until the sharp click that always accompanies their firing system being engaged echoes like a whip crack across the quad.

The dagger sails across the distance, lodging itself deep into the soft circuitry beneath the gate guards macabre mask. In the blink of an eye he’s pulling the blade free, ignoring the red spark of magitek energy that trails along the tempered steel and brushes against his fingers, searing small tremors into the surface of his skin.

He’s phasing before his last warp trail even has time to fade, leaving a line of azure silhouettes to track his progress, as he reaches for the gates release. The deed is done before the smoke of the crippled magitek puppet at his feet can even begin to disperse. The gate opens, gradually and then all at once as the system wakes up and the first bullet flies between the doors, just as a small sliver of daylight breaks through the opening gap, taking down an MT assassin that’s aiming to gut Noct.

More phasing as his brothers come to stand at his side, Gladio charging forward, shield already in hand raised in defence giving Noct a chance to breathe.

Prompto’s at his back, picking off the MTs that still line the top of the wall, they fall like the targets once did back in the Citadels training halls.

Amidst the clamour of crossing blades, exchanged fire, and dying MTs Noct tracks the movements of Prompto and Gladio. He refuses to lose sight of them, pushes himself even when he can feel the magic of Lucis’ line of Kings burning in his veins, past the point of pain where he usually has to stop. No, the point where Specs makes him stop with one of his subtle ways, that’s admonishing but at the same time protective and so damn caring that Noct can never be annoyed at them.

The reminder just makes him fight harder, until the last MT collapses and he has half a mind to follow it.

“You okay dude?” Prompto’s voice jolts him from the fog of exhaustion that’s endeavouring to pull him down, that and the grounding touch he can feel on his shoulder. The slight sway as his friend lightly shakes him flowing counter to the tilt brought to the world by too much warping.

“I’m good,” he grits out past clenched teeth. Forcing himself to believe the words as he ignores the steadily growing agony that’s gathering along the ragged line that scars his back. He should be used to it by now, he is used to it, but his support system is missing an essential piece—the main component—and he’s pushed himself too far.

“Liar,” Gladio mutters from somewhere to the left. “Sit down before you fall down or I’m dragging your ass back to the Regalia.”

“Would a potion help?” Prompto asks, Noct can feel his eyes on him but he knows the questions directed at Gladio.

He answers anyway.

“It’s fine, just gimme a minute.” The lie feels rough on his tongue. It’s been years since he’s had to cover for this, Iggy’s got all of his tells memorised, to the point where Noct is pretty sure Specs can recognise his symptoms before even he himself can.

He crouches for a second, taking in a deep breath as he wills away the growing ache. They don’t have time for this, the assault craft is sitting right there just waiting to be hijacked, he’s not stopping now.

He can rest in the back of the Regalia while Gladio…scratch that, Noct wouldn’t trust Gladio to drive the Regalia down a straight road. So, Prompto can pilot—he always seems to have a way with Niflheim tech—Noct can sleep and Gladio can sit in the corner and plot the violent death of anyone that stands between them and Iggy…After a nap Noct might join him.

Plan made, he holds his breath, stands, and forces his steps to be even.

“Let’s not keep Iggy waiting.”


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aranea's POV...so sass, endless sass

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am now down to a one chapter buffer...we'll see how things go

She hates him.

Without doubt, the only reason he isn’t dead right now is the simple fact that her mission stipulates that he must be delivered alive.

Her mission record is perfect—It has to be— it’s what separates a good mercenary from a dead one. That and a Pitioss load of luck. No amount of skill and tactical genius can account for double crossing employers, or prissy military personnel, whose egos are so fragile all it takes is her stepping into a room to shatter them.

Them, she can deal with, is used to dealing with on a daily basis, the only exception being Ravus who knows she’s worth every gil and affords her and her men the respect they deserve. Too bad this time her employer happens to be Niflheim’s very own Emperor, a man who delights in belittling even his most ardent worshipers. Who believes that the best motivation for those in his employ is to ta—

She shakes her head trying to get her wondering thoughts back on track, but it’s hard to do when the unrestrained heat of the desert sun is beating down on her back, her shoulders, her head. Oh, and lets not forget her armour.

Her armour, now that is a problem. The metal burns where it touches her exposed skin and worryingly, she can no longer hear the buzzing hiss of her own sweat evaporating off the smooth black plains of the hardened steel.

Dehydration, not something that can be cured with a potion. The lack of sweat isn’t the only symptom she’s exhibiting, her tongues so dry that when it gets stuck to the roof of her mouth she can’t help but grimace at the rough sandpaper like texture of it.

She’d kill for a sip of water right now, or some shade, anything to bring just a little bit of relief to this unending heat.

_Drip._

Ugh, she’s so thirsty she’s beginning to imagine the sound of water.

This is not how this day was supposed to go.

Her morning had started out so well: three luxurious hours spent in the on-board baths, the first demanding a thorough scrub down, clean cloths dyed black by the layers and layers of grim swamp muck that had covered her from head to toe. The latter two, in contrast were an exercise in pure relaxation, but reality had called soon enough and no amount of languid steam or blissfully scorching warm water could distract her forever.

The later hours of the morning had been dedicated to her armour and lance, a task that Biggs or Wedge usually took care of for her, but they were not here.

Her armour had been relatively easy to handle, only a few pieces will need to be replaced and the task of removing silt, soot, mud, and MT oil from the finer joints had been almost meditative. Her lance on the other hand…yet another reason she wants tall, infuriating, and handsome dead.

Broken beyond all repair is a massive understatement, the quick temperature changes from all that magic he threw at her has stressed the metal to the point where the temper on the blade has been ruined. It’s so brittle that she’s able to break pieces of it off with hardly any pressure.

Tragic as that is, it wasn’t anything a few cans of Ebony couldn’t take the edge off of. The can of Tenebrae Gold had been a particularly nice accompaniment to the show Spec’s had made of dismantling the patrolling MTs; all watched from the comfort of the captain’s chair on the high def security cameras.

And then, her captive not only had to try and escape but had to bring down the entire ship while doing it.

Normally she would be impressed. Normally, she isn’t traipsing through the sand trying to keep her eyes on the trail her captive is leaving as she fights off the dizziness assaulting her senses, brought on—most likely—by the previously mentioned dehydration.

Yeaaah, she has every right to hate him.

_Drip._

_Drip._

The hallucination of the sound of water is persistent, maybe she’s concussed as well as dehydrated.

“Commodore?” The dead man walking calls. Huh, he’s back to using her title, when did that happen?

She looks up, grimacing as a sharp ray of light cuts straight through her retina, she’s sure her eyes would be watering if she had any to waste. Blinking, she’s finally able to see what blinded her: a canteen of water.

Without her consent her arm strikes out to snatch it and there’s no resistance. The caps already off and the relief is palpable as soon as the cool rim of the metal container brushes against the parched skin of her lips. There’s a part of her brain that’s telling her to take it slow, but it’s submerged beneath the unbridled need to quench her thirst.

The thought that this may be her only supply of water eventually manages to breach the surface of her mind, causing her to stop with such abrupt panic that she nearly chokes. She has enough presence of mind to cover the mouth of the canteen while she tries to get her breath back, preventing even a single drop from being lost to the desiccated grains of desert sand.

“Perhaps we should find some shade,” Scientia suggests. Aranea chooses to ignore him in favour of taking a far more reserved sip from the canteen. The echoing slosh of liquid held within tells her that the flask is less than half full…she feels her odds of survival dwindling once more.

“We had shade, back there,” she quietly snaps as she gestures towards the crash site, which is now nothing more than a wisp of black smoke and an occasional faint glint on the horizon.

“Are you familiar with this region?” The question is asked so calmly, his tone betraying nothing but passive curiosity. It sets her teeth on edge and she feels the need to glare at him over the rim of the canteen, as she takes another sip.

He returns her stare, his gaze even, maddeningly unperturbed, and if the slight quirk that she can see playing at the edge of his lips is anything to go by, amused.

“No, I’m used to flying over it in style.”

The lightest breath that may have been a suppressed laugh stretches across the distance between them.

“Niflheim’s airships have always been too austere for my taste,” he notes after a moment, adjusting his glasses as he does so, making it impossible to read his expression. “I would hardly call them stylish.”

“Yeah, that’s the reason you don’t like them,” she scoffs. “It’s got nothing to do with the fact that Niflheim’s been using them for the last few decades to demolish any and all Lucian defence.”

There’s silence, then suddenly he’s walking again, making his way down the side of the steep dune with far more grace then should be possible. Personally, Aranea blames his Anak like stature and legs that go for days.

“What, done with the small talk already?” she can’t help but poke. It’s her nature, she’s always liked to push limits and stretch boundaries. The thrill it sends down her spine is so close to the feeling of breathless anticipation that seizes her chest whenever she takes to the sky with only the aid of her lance. It’s addictive.

“I see no reason to continue when my efforts are likely to be sabotaged.” All the more reason for Aranea to keep pushing.

Crouching to ease some of the tension that has settled along the line of her back, she rests her chin in the palm of her hands and tracks his progress down the rest of the dune. “You barely even tried,” her comment is flippant, teasing. “We both know that you’re sassy under stress a—”

“I beg your pardon?” he interrupts her, his voice deadpan and quiet but his question still cuts through her words.

“Oh?” she asks, glee slipping into her tone as a sharp brow—she doesn’t think he can see from this distance—rises. “What? Have you never noticed?”

“There is nothing to notice.” He finally reaches the bottom. The soft sand slides beneath his feet, leaving deep impressions that map the route he chooses to take through the narrow expanse laid between the shifting dunes.

“It’s only taken me two fights and a near fatal crash to call you out on this, there’s plenty to notice.” She can’t help the leading purr that resonates in the back of her throat at the end of the sentence. The insinuating gaze that trails the sharp lines of his shoulders and circles down the valley of his back, appreciating how the fabric of his sweat soaked shirt clings to his subtly defined muscles—that, that she does for fun.

Ah, there’s the blush again. Rising up along the peaks of his cheekbones, painting his pale skin a dusky pink that’s noticeable, even against the first hints of dark red brushed along his face by the sun’s intense rays.

“Perhaps you bring out the worst in me,” he counters. Those damn glasses are still shielding his eyes and he’s managed to school his face back into that blank poker face. That’s fine, she just has to figure out his tells, it’s another game for her to play, another distraction, one that she needs.

“If this is your worst, I’d love to see your best.” Not the greatest line she could have followed with but that’s the point. She needs to gauge his reactions, study his genuine responses, and find the cracks that lay beneath the surface of that ascetic mask.

She already knows he’s weak when it comes to blatant flirting and a little inuendo, that or he’s the greatest actor she’s ever met, because she’d bet good gil that the flustered colour that tints his cheeks whenever their conversations have toed the line of modesty are completely authentic.

That said, there’s always the chance that she could push this too far and get the opposite result to the one she wants.

It looks like things might be heading that way when Scientia refuses to respond and instead continues his trek, following the curves of the thin space of flat ground that twists between the sea of dunes.

Unwilling to lose the challenge she’s set herself, Aranea pursues him and takes a gamble.

“Set up to be the Advisor to the future King of Lucis since the age of six,” she lists off the first detail she can remember about him, as she rolls her weight forward onto the balls of her feet. With feline grace she lunges forward, the air whips around her as she falls but her landing is soft. The sand barely stirs as her feet slide across it, fine grains skimming along the dark metal of her boots, scouring the flecks of dried swamp slime free from their surface.

“Trained in daggers and lance work as well as being schooled in the fine art of Lucian politics and warfare, both of which you excelled at,” she notes as she follows the path of almost neat footprints to stand only a few feet behind him.

“Do you have a point?” He’s looking at her now and finally she’s able to see those brilliant green eyes of his again. She’s unsurprised to see suspicion and mild annoyance—only mild, she’ll have to try harder—smouldering just below the surface.

“You’re the one that started this, I’m just trying to keep it interesting.” The question of why he started this in the first place is a thought that keeps fizzing at the back of her mind, like a bubble in deep water trying to reach the surface. She chooses to ignore it for the moment, deciding instead to focus on Scientia’s eyes.

They’re definitely his most expressive feature from what she’s seen so far, a fact she’s sure Scientia himself is aware of, considering how he guards them with one of the most innocuous habits. Actually, it’s an ingenious tactic, who would ever question someone adjusting their glasses?

It’s only a theory, but it’s one that’s easy to test.

“Interesting?” His tone sounds so put upon, but then his line of sight shifts. “Are you done with that?”

Looking down at herself, she can see that his gaze is fixed solidly upon the water canteen still held loosely in her grasp.

Instantly forgetting her previous train of thought, she covetously wraps her arm tightly around the canteen and presses it to her chest. The chill of the metal against the bare skin of her stomach sends little tremors of cold scuttling across her flesh. She nearly winces at the feeling, but she stops the instinctive reaction by biting down on her tongue, an old trick that has served her well in more than one late night poker game.

“No,” she all but hisses the word.

He’s looking at her as though her reaction is entirely uncalled for; eyebrows scrunched together in a frown that screams confusion and head tilted ever so slightly to the left, like studying her from a different angle will make this scene make sense.

Apparently, it does.

“Apologies, I merely presumed you would prefer to keep your water ration cool.” To emphasize his point, he retracts his extended arm, his movement slow and measured as though she were a crouched coeurl he’s trying not to provoke. As she watches light skits across his open palm, shards of shattered crystal that accompany the use of Lucian magic coalesce until they form together and solidify. A water canteen, the exact same style as the one she’s clasping appears out of thin air.

How? That’s the question that leaps to the forefront of her mind as her racing thoughts stop with such abrupt seizure that it feels as though they’re crashing together.

“It’s hardly the most zealously guarded secret,” Scientia answers, taking a swig from his own canteen. Aranea can’t help but watch; condensation from the casing of the canteen gathers at the balance point where skin touches metal. Until, inevitably gravity takes hold and a single crystal-clear droplet trails a course across Scientia’s pale skin.

_Drip._

Blinking, Aranea forces herself to look away as she clears her throat. “I didn’t ask.”

“You didn’t have to,” he says as he dismisses the canteen with an idle flick of his wrist.

Okay, he’s sounding way too smug. Yes, the fact that Lucian’s could store more than just curatives and weapons in that handy little dimensional pocket—the same dimensional pocket that Niflheim has been trying and failing to replicate for decades now—is a bit of a shock. Sure, she had her own prototype Magitek version, the one that can only hold her lance and maybe three potions on a good day. The one that has to be swapped out after every mission, because it’s likely to malfunction after long periods of use; either spitting out her items at the most inconvenient time, or making them impossible to reach when she needs them most…not ideal.

This is yet another example of why MT’s are not the ideal army that Besithia would have them be believed to be. This latest revelation shows that their intel gathering skills are more than lacking. Add that to the fact of their complete inability to act without clear orders or the sense needed to adapt to the ever-changing face of the war, and all you’re left with is a moving scrap heap that only wins through sheer numbers.

How wasteful.

“You know, the offer of a hand would not be amiss.” Scientia’s straining voice cuts through her wondering thoughts. Wondering scattered thoughts, not a slip she’d normally allow herself…yep, she’s still dehydrated, great.

Taking another sip from her own canteen she allows her gaze to zero back in on Scientia. He’s kneeling on the ground next to a…that’s a tent…he can pull a full tent out of that dimensional pocket…

He’s just showing off now, Aranea swears if he ends up pulling an Astrals damned kitchen sink from the ether she’s going to beat him to death with it.


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Drawing a line in the sand and cooking

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My chapter buffer is gone but I have five days supposedly free next week and most of the next chapter written...we shall see what happens!

Well, at least it’s not a kitchen sink.

Nope, it’s a fully kitted out cook station with room for pots, pans, a fully working gas stove, and a food prep area.

Aranea would be plotting his murder right now if the smell coming from the pan sitting over the flames of the stove wasn’t absolutely divine.

As it is, the smell is next to godly and she’s sitting in a chair with her feet up. All but lounging in the shade provided by the tent, the water canteen cool against the bare skin of her hands.

Yep, there’s no way she’s moving. Not unless Scientia makes a break for it, either that or a horde of daemons suddenly becomes immune to sunlight and attacks them. In which case she’ll haul herself out of this luxuriously comfy chair, just long enough to dye the sands black with scourge tainted gore, before retaking her seat and going back to relaxing like absolutely nothing happened.

A sudden break in the medley of sound that has accompanied Scientia’s activity, causes her to begrudgingly slide one eye open.

Scientia’s exactly where he should be, he’s just frozen, his hand paused mid-action as he glares down at the ingredients he’s preparing.

“Problem?” She doesn’t see how. So far, he’s been able to pull out everything he needs from that annoyingly handy pocket dimension of his.

Her question apparently hits play because he starts moving again, his long fingers sifting through the spices with practised ease and a familiarity that only comes with mastery of a craft.

“I was merely contemplating whether you had any allergies?” comes his eventual reply, as he sets aside whatever has been sizzling in the large pan and moves on to the veg he’d prepared earlier.

That comment warrants both her eyes being open. “Come again?”

“Food allergies, do you have any?” He doesn’t even look up as he asks, instead his eyes are trained on the steam that’s slowly curling into the air.

She takes another sniff, savouring the salty tang that’s starting to saturate the air of their small camp.

“Nope.” She pops the p as she uncrosses her legs, ensuring that her dragon wing cape unfurls in a swish of flaring fabric and scattering sand. It’s a movement designed to attract attention, what with the way the bright white of her cape shifts to unveil the shimmering black scale armour concealed beneath.

Scientia doesn’t notice, interesting. From what she’s observed so far, a move like that should have at least earned her a light blush or a raised eyebrow.

“Why? Were you hoping to poison me?”

He looks up briefly from where he’s gently stirring the concoction in the pan, to level a look at her which can only be described as insulted.

“And waste good food?” He doesn’t wait for her answer. Uncorking a green bottle, he measures out two tablespoons of what looks like oil in a manner that in anyone else’s hands would look slapdash. “Perish the thought.”

“Come on, the thought must have crossed your mind? What better way to get me out of your hair?” She’s leaning forward now, trying to catch his eye but his focus remains solidly on his task.

“There are any number of more efficient methods for me to be rid of your company.” Garlic and paprika follow the oil and the stirring continues, as though he didn’t just casually comment on how easy it would be to kill her.

“Oh, and what would those methods be?” Even his glasses can’t hide the abrupt shift as his eyes dart towards a knife, which lays innocently atop the chopping board. Nor can Scientia conceal the way his fingers tighten around the smooth wood of the spoon that’s stilled in his hand.

“Don’t try it,” the unspoken threat in her voice is practically buried beneath the rumble of challenge that permeates her tone.

Disappointingly, he doesn’t. Though the subtle changes in his grip upon the spoon gives her the impression that he is still thinking about it.

After a moment of silence, filled with only the soft simmer of oil and heat Scientia sighs. “It is hardly in my best interest to waste time and energy in an attempt to be free of you.”

“Really?”

“Indeed, from your own admission you are not familiar with this region.” He’s adding rice to the mix in the pan now and patting it down with a little more vigour than Aranea would think is strictly necessary. “The odds of us being able to locate a Haven before the sun sets are slim.”

He’s right there. The Empire has never seen fit to mark the locations of Haven’s on any of their regional maps, viewing them as unnecessary, a relic left over from a time when Niflheim had been as beholden to the grace of the Oracle as the rest of the world. In other words, something to be ignored and forgotten about.

“So what? Are you proposing a truce?” she asks.

“As I believe we are already in the midst of one.” He gestures with his free hand to the calm setting of the camp. “What I am suggesting is an extension of our current circumstances, until such a time as they are no longer feasible.”

She takes a drink of water to stall for time. There’s no point in asking what she can gain from this temporary alliance, that question has already been answered by her current surroundings.

Him on the other hand?

“What do you get out of it?” she asks, seeing very little point in wasting time with meaningless power plays.

Cleaning his hands Scientia faces her. “An accomplished ally who is invested in our survival.”

Aranea can’t help but smirk at that.

By now she’s sure she has the measure of Scientia; he’s a tactician, someone who can assess the pros and cons of a situation in a single glance, someone who can develop plans even in the midst of battle, someone who’s ready and willing to take risks. That sounds like someone she can work with…for now.

“Hmm, I don’t know,” she hedges, trying to sound reluctant and maybe a little bored. “What would be the terms of this temporary ceasefire?”

Scientia finally steps away from the stove, making his way towards her. Personally, Aranea can’t imagine how he can stand to be next to the flames in this heat in the first place. Even in the shade provided by the towering dunes, there is little respite from the soaring temperatures of the burning sands that surround them.

He approaches her cautiously, his guard still clearly raised. Smart, her estimations of his capabilities would have dropped if he didn’t have the sense to still view her as the threat she is.

“Nothing too complicated. Merely a few restrictions on your attempts to recapture me and your co-operation should we be attacked,” he lists, his fingers literally ticking off each point. “In exchange I will be willing to give you access, through me, to the supplies held within the armiger.”

Armiger, she’ll have to remember the name. Besithia’s always chomping at the bit for more information in regards to Lucian magic.

That’s for later.

“Is that all,” she scoffs. Rolling her eyes as she leans back into the chair, forcing herself to stay calm and feign disinterest.

Scientia doesn’t look impressed, he’s standing his ground, his posture perfect and his gaze level.

“Do you have a counteroffer?”

Now he’s speaking her language.

“Not that you care, but you kinda scrapped my weapon.”

“That ostentatious spear?”

She feels the first crack in her calm façade form at that comment. It’s just a small fracture, a fine line across the surface of her perfect mask, but judging by the slight uptick at the corner of Scientia’s mouth, he’s caught her slip.

No matter, it’s a light blow, one that’s easily shrugged off.

“That ‘ostentatious spear’ was a customed feat of engineering that probably cost more than your entire life’s salary.”

“Indeed it should; the title of Adviser to the crown is not a remunerated position.”

Remunerated, what an elegant way to say he doesn’t get paid jack shit for risking his life on account of a spoiled Prince. She doesn’t know whether to laugh or cry. That’s a lie.

“Heh, you might want to re-evaluate your career choice.”

“Hardly,” he defends. “Duty and loyalty shouldn’t have to be bought.”

A vicious smile cuts a curve along her jaw. “And yet, here I am.”

She knows her barb has struck by the way he retreats without even moving a muscle. It’s not anything as simple or as obvious as a sudden change in stance or a fierce glare. No, it’s the air around him.

There’s a certain charge that hangs between them now, so much like the calm before a storm. One step, that’s all that it will take to cross the line drawn in the sand, the line she can only see now that she is about to cross it.

Leaning forward in her chair Aranea prepares for the blow she’s sure is about to come.

The sigh that escapes him instead is unexpected. “We seem to have gotten off topic.”

Aranea’s not buying this about face for a second.

“Would a temporary replacement for your weapon be an incentive?” he questions as he backs away a few steps.

“Temporary?” If she’s getting a weapon out of this deal, she expects to be able to keep it.

“Yes.” Not a point he’s willing to budge on.

“What kind of weapon are we talking about here?” She’s standing now, a gesture meant to show her interest, but her stance is loose and hard to read.

Quietly, he assesses her. His gaze light and speculative as it trails along the contours of her form. There’s no trace of the embarrassed flush she’s come to expect from him, even as his gaze lingers across the exposed skin of her belly. It’s so different from the hungry leering stares she’s grown used to ignoring. Frankly, it’s a nice change.

“You have a preference for polearms.”

Before she can even answer the rhetorical question a lance manifests in his grasp. Aranea blinks rapidly, trying to clear her vision of the shadows of light imprinted on the back of her eyelids.

“Will this suffice?” He offers the weapon to her, the handle extended towards her.

Taking it in hand she runs her finger along the grip.

It’s a Wyvern Lance. Not a common polearm, but not a weapon that can measure up to her Stoss Spear by any stretch of the imagination.

That said it’s still a decent weapon, better than anything she would have guessed he’d be willing to lend her. It also plays to her strengths, being a weapon that’s designed for airborne combat. She knows the legends that surround the crafting of this lance, what self-respecting Dragoon wouldn’t.

“It’ll do.”

“So, we have a deal?” he asks, his hand is still extended between them, waiting and expectant.

Aranea’s never been that easy.

“I don’t know,” she drawls. “It’s a good start but-”

The feeling of the blade shattering in her hand as Scientia retracts his is staggering and strange.

“What the hell!”

“You seem to be under the impression that there is more wiggle room in this negotiation than there actually is.”

He dares to turn his back on her, and she’s half tempted to tackle him. To force him to look at her and make him realise that in this situation she’s the one in control.

She doesn’t. As he said earlier it would just be a waste of energy, add in the fact that it’s way too hot for this and she’s about ready to collapse in the chair again.

“It’s a negotiation, if you’re not bleeding the other party for as many resources as you can get, then you’re not doing it right.”

Scientia’s back at his cook station, turning the large pan over the flames but not stirring it. She assumes it’s because he needs something to do with his hands.

“What other resources do you presume I have?” There’s genuine curiosity colouring his tone.

Were it anyone else Aranea would know that was an inuendo, but coming from this guy? Yeah, not a chance in Pitioss.

“You’re the one with access to a pocket dimension stocked full of goodies, you tell me.

That actually gets an eye roll. “You are making this needlessly complicated.”

“Who, me?” she bats her eyes as she says this, her voice drowning in sarcasm.

She swears she can see a vein starting to throb in his temple; even as he calmly arranges what looks like mollusks around the edge of the pan, which is soon followed by the fish and other ingredients he’d set aside earlier. It smells even better than before, how is that possible.

“Neither of us will survive the night if we don’t work together.” There’s an accusing edge in his tone now.

“What? Are you afraid of a few Daemons?” Anyone with sense is but teasing Scientia and getting him worked up is proving to be too much fun.

“I’d be a fool not to be.”

“Oh please.” She waves her hand as though she can dismiss his words. “I saw you dismantle an entire division of MTs; if I hadn’t been there you might have even gotten away. What are a few Daemons compared to that?”

“Compared to that an unrelenting horde of Daemons is terrifying. With MTs there is always an end and it is usually a clean one. Any wound they inflict can be healed given the right curative and at their worst all they can do is kill me.”

There’s a weighted pause, as though he’s waiting for her to say something but when she says nothing he continues.

“The days have been growing shorter and with the longer nights the Daemons are becoming bolder. Even if we work together, we may not survive the night, but we still stand a better chance than we would if we choose to go our separate ways.”

“What makes you think I’m going to let you go?” Her brow tightens at the suggestion of that scenario, but the expression quickly morphs into an uncomfortable grimace. It’s only now she remembers the dry blood that’s streaked across her skin and matted in her hair.

She has to forcefully stop herself from raising a hand to track the lines of flaking red that must cover her skin.

Movement from Scientia draws her attention and she’s already taken half a step back before she even realises what he’s doing.

A handkerchief, he’s holding out a handkerchief to her. Not just one of those simple paper ones you can get at any diner, oh no. It’s pure black, apart from the gold thread that sewn into it that replicates the creepy skull they like to call the Lucian Royal Family crest. She’s also pretty sure the things made of silk.

She snorts, snatching the handkerchief---which, yep is definitely made out of silk—and using it to wipe away the worst of the blood.

Making sure that it’s only one side of the unnecessarily fancy cloth that’s ruined beyond all salvation, she goes to give it back.

“Keep it.” Never one to look a gift chocobo in the mouth, she stores it.

He’s dishing up the food now and it doesn’t look like something that was put together in less than half an hour in the desert.

Holding the bowl just out of her reach he meets her eyes once more. His gaze steady and sure, the bright green muted by the transparent reflection of her own image in his glasses.

“Do we have a deal?”

She takes the bowl but doesn’t move to retake her seat, or to taste the peace offering. Reading the silent challenge, Scientia takes his own fork and scoops a generous portion from her bowl and swallows it without ceremony.

When nothing happens, she’s left with little choice.

“Ugh, fine you win.” She punctuates their newfound agreement by spearing a shrimp from Scientia’s unguarded bowl.


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The night is dark and full of Daemons. Good thing Iggy has Aranea watching his back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My Buffer is completly gone...T-T  
We'll just have to see what happens next week.
> 
> Cries out into the void hoping for a muse to respond

The hours between the accord with the Commodore being struck and the sun setting, pass too quickly.

They have no time to rest, only a short window of opportunity with which to familiarise themselves with the others capabilities and the items they have at their disposal.

Ignis himself finds the terrain to be less than ideal for his preferred style when fighting with a lance. The soft sand renders his more acrobatic forms impractical, the polearms sinking into the sand and drifting through the loose grains, robbing him of any grip or leverage.

The Commodore doesn’t seem to be limited by any such issue. The height of her gravity defying jumps has been lessened with the absence of her custom spear, but she is able to make up for this loss. A fact made evident by the litany of crater’s dotting the space they had used as an impromptu training ground.

He must admit, it’s somewhat heartening to see.

Alone, his chances of survival were minimal, at best. Between the Daemons stalking the night hours and the relentless sun tormenting him throughout the day, his stamina could never have lasted.

With the Commodore’s aid the problem of the relentless night horde will be somewhat lessened. Maybe even to the point where they may last long enough to find a Haven.

Until then the only sound strategy is to avoid and evade.

It’s rather ironic. Ignis never thought he’d be grateful for the months he and the others have spent eluding the empires grasp, but he’s about to put all the skills he’s had to learn during that time to the test. Should he survive this and ever has the great misfortune of meeting Emperor Aldercapt, Ignis will have to remember to thank him. Whether he does that before or after he slits the rotting tyrants throat remains to be seen.

Watching the last rays of the sun fade across the darkening horizon, Ignis cannot suppress the rising sense of dread. It douses him in a cold shroud of resignation, seeping away the lingering warmth that clings in vain to his sweat soaked skin.

He manages to withhold the persistent shiver that crawls along his rigid spine, until the sounds—so much like stirred up stagnant water and the rending tear of broken iron—reach his ears.

“Any final words of wisdom?” he asks, as a hand stained with darkness claws against the sand.

“Stay close and try not to die.” Comes the steady reply.

“Right then.”

He sets off at a steady pace, following the loose ravine set between the roaming sea of dunes. The sounds of rattling chains and liquid darkness growing louder, even as they put distance between themselves and the emerging giant.

The temptation to look back grows as light catches in the periphery of his vision, but he ignores it. Knowing from experience that time spent looking back can mean the difference between life and death.

He chooses instead to focus on the sound of the Commodore following in his footsteps. The clink of armour and the swish of fabric as she mirrors his steps, quiet breaths that set a calming rhythm so at odds with the raucous beat of his own heart.

He’s thankful for it, even as the galloping beat snatches at his focus, chipping away at his concentration as he scans the darkness outside the small pool of light provided by his affixed torch. How can he not be, the spike of adrenaline his raised heartbeat pumps through his veins feeds his strength and heightens his senses. It provides him an edge that he desperately needs.

“Look out!”

The shout proves quite unnecessary, as in the same moment the Commodore tackles him from behind. Any protest that tries to make it past the mouthful of sand, is silenced by the roar of flame that rends the air above their splayed forms.

Gathering himself Ignis rolls, covering the Commodore as he does so, dragging her with him. Instinctively he curls around her, one hand cupping the back of her head as he draws her close, trying to make them as small a target as possible.

It’s a task made all the more difficult by the sharp elbow the Commodore insists upon jamming into his side. However, he refuses to move until the nearby growls and otherworldly screeches of the manifesting Daemons withdraw.

They do, slowly, in a manner that gives Ignis the impression that they are aware of his and the Commodore’s presence, but not of their exact location.

The Commodore seems to have caught onto this fact as well, judging by the way her struggles suddenly cease.

Forcefully calming his breaths, he listens to the random meanderings of the Bomb floating further up the trail. It’s hard to pinpoint its position, what with the strange sounds of its round body bobbing in the air on invisible air currents, which echo off the slanted faces of the dunes that form the small valley.

Even so, he manages to deduce that the Bomb isn’t leaving. The little chuffs of smoke he can hear grow louder and the unsettling odour of brimstone deepens to a heady miasma, that has his eyes watering against its potency.

His thoughts as to why the Bomb isn’t leaving are derailed by a stilted but gentle movement against his chest.

“Stop moving,” he hisses as he tightens his grip. Trying to stall the metal clad fingers that ghost along the fabric of his shirt.

“Shush,” she whispers back with an air of such authority that it has Ignis bristling with indignation.

He’s ready to shift, to gain enough space so as to grab her arm, in order to halt her progress, but then the soft clink of metal against glass attracts his attention.

The night draws in around them as the torch fixed to his chest is covered. He’s left blinking at the sudden loss, having not realised, in his haste to find cover, how his light reflected off the obsidian metal of the Commodores chest plate.

They both still again, their breaths shallow and quiet as they wait. The sole source of light remaining to them comes from the Bomb that stalks them. The eery red of its cursed flames seem to feed off the darkness, rather than repel it.

Long minutes pass marked only by the rumbling huffs, cloying screeches, and the waning spark of the circling Daemon. Then, silence. It closes in with the darkness, making Ignis feel as though he’s been robbed of both his sight and hearing, but his senses slowly adjust. To the point where instead of a featureless void his searching gaze is once more met with a shadowed landscape.

He can just make out the Commodore silhouette. Her hair is her most catching feature at present; even in the encompassing darkness of a night sky bereft of moonlight, her hair is still a radiant shade of silver, comparable to starlight. He rolls that thought over in his mind for a second, truly wandering where his sanity has run off to if he’s allowing such useless observations to occupy his attention.

Closing his eyes—so as to no longer be tempted to continue his completely irrelevant study of the Commodore—he chooses to wait, unsure if the Daemon is truly gone and unwilling to make the mistake of revealing himself too soon.

It proves to be a lapse in judgment when the subtle scent of strawberry mixed with the salty musk of dried sweat, assaults his senses. It’s a detail that so at odds with the image he has of the Commodore; he would think that she would refuse to use perfumed hair products, simply on the basis that the unique aroma might reveal her position to a target with a sensitive sense of smell.

He rolls his eyes, trying to dislodge that useless train of thought; he has far more pressing matters to concern himself with.

Deciding that enough time has passed—a decision that is in no way influenced by the sudden need to have his personal space restored—he retracts his arms and extricates himself from the pile of limbs he and the Commodore have become. Ignis can’t help but note how they seem to be making a habit of this, it’s a trend he’s set on breaking.

“Tch, and I was just getting comfy,” the brazen taunt comes, as if on cue.

“Your comfort is not my highest priority at present.” He dusts himself off, looking anywhere but at the Commodore.

With the light of his torch once more illuminating their surroundings, Ignis is left blinking at the expanse of seemingly endless darkness just outside the reaches of the small circle of light.

“You do realise that torch of yours is probably doing more harm than good, right?” He doesn’t need to look at the Commodore in order to see the challenging smirk he can hear etched into her voice.

He should ignore her, but even with the playful lilt that colours her tone, he can still decipher the serious edge that hardens her words.

“And why is that?” He turns to see the Commodore rising to her feet with a lithe grace, only heightened by the way the torchlight smoothly skims across the angled lines of her armour.

“It’s the brightest source of light for miles, of course the Daemons are gonna be attracted to it,” she explains, her words lacking the condescending edge he’s expecting.

“It’s never been a problem before.” Ignis refrains from touching the light source, even as the Commodore pins him with a look that screams disbelief.

“Really?”

“Indeed.” Ah, another flare of indignation, one that he’s unable to fully repress this time.

“Then you’re damn lucky.” She’s closing the distance between them now, her stance aggressive and serious. “Walking around with that strapped to your chest is like taunting a cat with a laser pointer.”

He can’t help but scoff at the comparison. For some reason it reminds him of one of the numerous colloquial sayings that Cindy likes to throw about whenever they have caught her in a mood.

“Something funny?” she asks.

“Not at all, I would just never picture you as a cat person.”

“You got a problem with cats?” She crosses her arms in an almost petulant fashion.

“Hardly.” How could he when he’s been in charge of looking after Noct. “I merely prefer dogs.”

“Why am I not surprised.” She’s moving closer again, her steps circling and slow, so as not to be perceived as a threat. “Let me guess, it’s their penchant for blind obedience that you relate to.”

“More their loyalty,” Ignis corrects as he resists the urge to adjust his glasses, even as his fingers twitch to do so.

“What’s the difference?”

Frustration rises to join the earlier indignation, adding a bitter edge to his emotions that makes his lips curl in displeasure.

“If you have to ask, then it’s hardly worth my time trying to explain.” His tone is dismissive as he turns to continue walking, believing that distance will grant him some protection from her continued attempts to bait him.

Though, just to be safe, he follows her advice and darkens his torch, allowing the night to engulf them once more.

It’s unnerving, to say the least.

For long seconds pure darkness shrouds his sight. He finds himself blinking rapidly, trying to regain some clarity, but he can hardly tell the difference between having his eyes open or closed. Until finally, pinpricks of light against a black canvas begin to come into focus.

He trains his slowly adjusting sight on the distant sources of light that reign far above them. Hoping that having something to concentrate on will allow his vision to adapt that little bit faster.

In its own way he supposes the desert night sky is beautiful; grand and endless in a way that can’t help but make him feel small. Untouchable in its distance and for that all the more humbling.

The Commodore passes by him, so close but for all intents and purposes as unreachable as the stars that rest above them. He wonders what it would take to understand her. From what he’s observed so far it seems as though her only motivation lies with her next paycheque, but for some reason this thought lies oddly in his mind, like a puzzle piece that doesn’t quite fit.

Distant growls mixed with the sound of rattling chains and haunting cries remind him that this is a question best left for safer grounds.


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A moment of quiet

“This looks like a good spot.”

Ignis can’t help but agree. After hours of trekking through the seemingly endless maze of dunes that now lay far behind them, the sight of the flat plain stretched out before them, with only the occasional rocky outcrop had been a welcomed sight.

This particular rocky outcrop they now stand upon, provides the perfect vantage point from which to observe the terrain. More importantly it’s sheltered; three large, wind carved, sandstone monoliths lean in towards each other as they all reach towards the sky, leaving a small hollow at the base. A hollow that’s large enough for he and the Commodore to both rest comfortably within. On closer inspection, Ignis is sure that the recess would accommodate the tent, were he willing to waste time and energy setting it up. Something he is not currently willing to do considering the ongoing night and his own exhaustion.

“I will take first watch.” He summons his own sleeping bag as he says this and holds it out towards her as a silent offering.

For a moment she looks as though she’s going to protest, but then the fight seems to drain from her. She takes the proffered sleeping bag and begins to arrange it against the back wall of the natural alcove. “Wake me in forty minutes for my stint of guard duty.” With that, she summons her borrowed blade and settles down.

How she is capable of falling asleep in the armour is a question he is unable to ask. No sooner has she laid down, than the soft sigh of gentle snores begin to echo off the wind worn walls that provide them temporary sanctuary.

Letting out a hesitant groan, Ignis rests his back against the cool stone as he adjusts his glasses. The landscape around him is currently quiet, the haunting growls and eldritch screeches that have dogged their steps having fallen silent for now.

The perch he has chosen is extremely uncomfortable, obscure rock formations poke idly at sensitive nerves and thin skin no matter how he positions himself, just as he intended. The lack of comfort will make it easier to stay awake, easier to keep a watchful eye on the arid landscape that stretches out before him, only disappearing when the dark horizon meets it at the edge of the world.

He waits quietly, his gaze cautious and attentive as he looks anywhere besides the mouth of the pseudo-cave that gapes wide and snarling at his back. All the while he listens, counting the even breaths that stretch out between he and the Commodore, waiting until he hears them grow deeper and slower, waiting until all signs of alertness bleed away, taken by the exhaustion he can feel resting heavily on his own shoulders.

Even when he is sure that the Commodore is no longer feigning but is in fact asleep, he waits a few moments. Minutes pass, marked only by the slow crawl of the waning canvas of starlight above him; not even the Daemons seem willing to break the fragile silence that has descended upon the barren plains he finds himself trapped in.

Satisfied, for now, Ignis takes the chance to pull out his phone. He shields the light from its screen as best he can, pressing it close to his chest as he curls in around it, shoulders hunched, back bowed, and arms cradled as though he’s clasping something irreplaceably precious.

He stills again and listens.

The Commodores languid breaths continue unmarred by even the smallest hitch in their even pattern.

Taking his chance, he looks back to his phone; only for dismay and annoyance to grip him as he finds that the reception is non-existent. He suspected this might be the case, but having it confirmed is still disheartening.

Foolishly, he had been hoping for a chance to contact his friends. For a few scant minutes to assure them that he wasn’t currently bound and chained and subject to the tender mercies of the empire. No, instead he finds himself the focus of a mercurial mercenary’s idle whims…for a second, he can’t help but think that maybe it’s a good thing his friends aren’t aware of his current predicament.

That notion passes quickly, swept away by the thought of their respective reactions. Prompto’s sparkling puppy eyed stares and endless requests to get a few shots, interspersed with the occasional stage whispered gossip hidden indelicately behind a raised hand. Noct’s insincere indifference mixed with expertly timed bouts of sarcasm, that Ignis knows from experience would leave him feeling equal parts humiliated and dare he admit it, proud. Worst of all, by far, would be Gladio’s reaction, If his response to Prompto’s tongue tied and blushing demeanour whenever he was around Cindy were anything to go by…suffice it to say Ignis is relieved that Gladio was not present for their venture into the depths of the Steyliff Grove dungeon. The looks that Noct and Prompto had shared when they thought he could not see were more than enough.

He can’t help the indolent twitch that plays at the edge of his mouth; for all it has only been a few days, the events of Steyliff Grove now seem like a lifetime ago.

Returning his attention to the now dark screen of his phone, he prompts the device back to life with just a few practised swipes. He will have to be considerate with its use, apart from having no reception the battery is also woefully low. He’s not sure whether it even has enough remaining power to allow him to send a message, let alone make a call without fear of reducing it to little more than a useless tile.

Trying to be brief he types a quick message and ignores the memo informing him that he’s down to one percent power. He is brief, but he has barely finished his first line of text when his phone gives a sombre little chirp and a shuddering vibration, before the screen fades to black.

“Blast.” The word escapes him as a frustrated growl twisted around a discouraged groan.

He freezes when a disgruntled moan follows his own quiet outburst.

The shuffle of shifting fabric and steel breaks the stilled silence; such a small series of noises, but as they echo off the grainy rock that surrounds them, they create a cacophony of sound that reverberates into the void of the quiet night.

He’s expecting her to rise, to be fully woken by the sound of her own movements, so he’s surprised when, with a great huff of air, she settles back into the comfort of her borrowed sleeping bag and doesn’t move again.

The tight cord of tension tangled within his chest slowly unfurls, as the soft chorus of the Commodores light snores returns, and he cannot help but sigh in relief.

Unable to work it, he dismisses his phone into the armiger, unwilling to risk the chance of it being confiscated or damaged. There may yet be an opportunity for him to use it later if they manage to make it to civilisation, it’s simply a matter of charging his device.

For now, he’ll have to resort to other means of communication.

Hunching over once more, using his own body as a barrier to contain the flash of iridescent light, he summons his journal. The black leather feels cool against his palm but familiar in a way that sends reassuring warmth running up his arm.

Unwilling to waste time he flips with nimble movements and swift fingers to the first clear sheet of paper and without hesitation, rips it clean from the Journals pages. He does it quickly, in hopes that the brief but sharp noise of paper being torn will not disturb the Commodore. It proves to be the right choice; she doesn’t even stir.

Acting on what feels like borrowed time, Ignis slides his pen from where it rests secured along the spine of his little black book. The first scratch of ink against the stark white of the small sheet of paper soon turns into a harried scrawl, that renders his usual elegant script almost lost amongst the sharp edges and trailing tails of his hurried hand.

When he’s done the final result is a less than elegant, but still serviceable, letter outlining his current predicament as well as his hopes for an eventual resolution, that ends with him somehow managing to reunite with them in Altissia sans the Commodores company.

Just to be thorough and because he knows his friends, he includes a list of supplies they will need to stock up on. His situation being what it is, he hasn’t had the time to conduct a proper inventory of the armiger; he has no idea how close they are to their supplies being dangerously low and he doesn’t want to find their missing something essential when they suddenly desperately need it.

Looking over the letter one more time, Ignis cannot suppress the nagging feeling that it’s missing something. It’s nothing too obvious, he’s covered all the information that’s relevant. He’s also added a few lines that will surely get him accused of mother-henning again, but the thoughts of being the first Advisor to lose his liege to salt poisoning outweigh any umbrage levelled at that false allegation.

Shrugging off the unquiet sense that something is missing like an ill-fitting shroud, Ignis directs his thoughts to the process of actually ensuring his message is received.

Unlike Noct, he doesn’t have an Astrals sent messenger to ensure his letter gets to its intended destination—what he wouldn’t give for the familiar sight of Umbra or Pryna bounding towards him—however, he does have full access to the items within the armiger.

It’s a simple matter really; all he need do is attach his letter to an item that he knows will be summoned from the armiger with some regularity. Something that isn’t disposable, something that won’t be summoned without care or forethought. That eliminates any curatives and all the weapons; he’s seen the way the other’s throw them around in battle, his letter would be shredded and scattered to the four winds within seconds.

It would also be more practical for it to be something on the smaller side, so that his letter won’t be missed if the item is only given a cursory glance before being put to use.

The perfect item comes to mind and brings with it the soft memory of sunlight glinting across a well-cared for lens and bubbling laughter.

Prompto’s camera comes easily at his call.

Turning it over in his hands he can see that it’s no worse for wear than the last time he held it. For someone who is a self-proclaimed klutz Prompto is very adept at wielding his camera, Ignis has yet to see him clumsily drop or mishandle it.

He brings it to a stop when the display screen faces him. Before he even realises it, he’s reaching for the power button; there’s a light high-pitched chirp followed by the near silent whir of the waking shutter and then he’s looking at a black image of the back of the lens cap.

Bringing up and navigating the menu is easy, he’s seen Prompto do it so many times now, excited fingers all but blurring across the black beetle shell buttons on the back as he tried to find a particular shot. Ignis takes it at a slower pace.

He’s surprised when the first picture comes up. It’s an almost candid shot taken whilst they were in the depths of Steyliff Grove; light from the water ceiling filters down, even to the darkest depths of the dungeon, casting wavering shadows across ancient pillars that support the impossible sight.

Personally, Ignis is far more interested in the people featured in the photo than the impressive architecture. A feeling he imagines Prompto shared when he took this photo.

Prompto’s featured in the front and to the right of the image, his stance showing clearly that he’s having to lean into the frame in order to hold his camera at the right angle. Noct is a bit further back and to the right, looking directly at the camera, a mischievous smirk darkening his features as he gestures to the two figures lurking in the background.

He recognises himself and the Commodore fairly easily, in spite of the coiling gloom that attempts to claim them. What he doesn’t recognise is the smile on his own face.

It’s unsettling to say the least; he didn’t think his facial muscles could be pulled into that sort of—he recoils at the thought of calling it an expression—configuration.

He wants to dismiss it, to scroll past the image and log it as a mere momentary slip that Prompto just so happened to capture, but the Commodores body language mirrors his own. It’s easier for him to ascribe a name to the countenance she has donned in the photo: alluring.

The sudden dryness of his throat has very little to do with the arid climate he finds himself in.

What is happening to him?

Raising his hand, he gently massages the bridge of his nose, hoping that the pressure will suppress his sudden headache.

Exiting the menu, with the feint hope that banishing the image will expunge his thoughts regarding it—unlikely—Ignis cannot help but recall a saying that Prompto is so fond of: ‘a pictures worth a thousand words.’

Earlier, he felt that his brief letter had been missing something.

Maybe…

Switching the camera to night mode and removing the lens cap, he turns the camera in order to cradle it gently, in an approximation of the way he has seen Prompto hold it when he is trying to take a selfie.

He finds trying to push the shutter button when holding the camera like this is a slightly awkward task, but he manages.

The crisp snap of the shutter confirms that the picture has been taken, but he won’t be satisfied with the image until he’s at least looked at it.

The process of bringing up the menu is forestalled by the scrape of metal heels against rough sandstone.

“What are you doing?”

He doesn’t jump, but it’s a near thing.

She’s behind him; from this angle the camera should still be shielded by his own frame. Working quickly, he folds his letter into the bracket of the strap, cringing when he hears the paper crinkle as it’s forced to fit into a space not meant to accommodate it.

Unsatisfied but out of time, he dismisses the camera and turns to see that the Commodore now stands directly behind him.

She looms above him. A monolith of obsidian steel risen on a sandstone pedestal, like some forgotten Astral of old.

“It isn’t your turn to keep watch yet, you still have another ten minutes at least.”

His crude attempt at deflection is cut down by the Commodores chilling stare and unyielding stance.

“I find it hard to sleep when my sentinel’s so obviously distracted.”

“Distracted? Hardly.” He dismisses her accusation like a coeurl batting away a fly, lazily and with the smallest measure of his attention. “I was merely making the best use of my time.”

“Uh-huh, well now that I’m awake we might as well switch.”

Choosing—for once—not to look the gift Chocobo in the mouth, Ignis stands and makes his way to his awaiting sleeping bag only to be stopped by a question.

“So, that pampered prince of yours doing okay?”

The inquiry lacks the rancour of her previous taunts, but it sends a fiery lance of cold dread straight down the length of his spine. She has been listening, the entire time, it had not been safe.

Swallowing down the creeping tendril of ire that slithers up his throat Ignis breathes.

“I do not know.”

He doesn’t and he won’t know for quite some time, but when the reply eventually comes, he will not be as remiss as to allow the Commodore to catch it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I will be switching to updating once every two weeks until I can get my buffer back up.  
Hopefully you guys will stick with me.  
Please remember that comments and kudos are author fuel


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